A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood
by queen of the imps
Summary: Two brothers grow up together, never realizing that one will become a renowned psychopath, while the other becomes an assassin for hire. What secrets do they hold, and how will they react when reunited after 13 years apart? BACK FROM HIATUS
1. Selling Your Soul

Disclaimer: I don't own 'Red Eye' or 'Batman Begins'. Go beg with Wes Craven and Christopher Nolan, if that's who you're looking for.

READ THE AUTHOR'S NOTE BEFORE PROCEEDING.

A/N: This story is a Red Eye/Batman Begins crossover, but don't worry: if you haven't seen Batman Begins, you'll still be able to understand what was going on.

This story started out as an assignment in my writing class. The instructions were to take an antagonist or minor character from a film, book, or TV show and give him or her a backstory. Well, I couldn't decided between my two favorite villains (coincidentally played by the same actor), Jonathan Crane and Jackson Rippner. So I decided to do both. But how could I incorporate two characters from such different worlds into one story?

That's when I hit on the idea of them being brothers.

The story is a series of vignettes, based on a very twisted, very strange childhood shared by these two characters. As I developed the story, I decided to include scenes from their adult life as well.

Here is the only warning that I'm going to give readers: I don't do warnings. If something controversial, potentially disturbing, or just plain out frightening is going to be featured, than I'm not going to tell you ahead of time. If you are of faint heart or weak stomach, _this is not the story for you._ There are going to be lots of things people won't like in upcoming chapters, so that's why I asked you to read the author's note now. And if you didn't? That's your own damn fault.

Onward ho!

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_The Strength That Comes From Selling Your Soul_

Jonathan was called Scarecrow even when he was very young, when his father would send him out into the backyard to scare away the birds. He'd run through the grass, arms outstretched, screaming loudly as a flurry of feathers hurried to get out of his way. By the time he had returned to the back door, sweating and out of breath, his father would be in a fit of hearty laughter. "Good job, Scarecrow," he'd wheeze between chuckles as Jonathan collected his breath.

He hated it when his father called him that. Whenever that name left his lips, Jonathan wanted to run up to him, kicking, hitting, flailing, and screaming, "Don't call me that, you fat pig! Never call me that again!" But Jonathan was smart enough not to live out these fantasies. He knew that no good would come of it. So Jonathan would content himself with fantasizing about putting an end to his father's taunting, comforting himself with images of his father cowering in fear before him.

Jonathan was a master of fear: he enjoyed being afraid, and he took pleasure in watching the fear of others. He became enamored with all things frightening at a very young age, when he realized just how scared of the dark young children could be. He cowered whenever he was left in a dark room alone, and it both scared him and thrilled him. Perhaps that was why he hated it when his father called him "Scarecrow": to Jonathan, the title was one that demanded respect and fear. And Jackson was the only one who respected Jonathan and scared him half to death.

Jonathan and Jackson were brothers, but that was only part of their relationship. They were confidantes, rivals, friends, enemies, and fellow tormentors. Needless to say, theirs was a rather bizarre camaraderie. Only with them could you nearly kill one another, then go on acting as though nothing had happened. In fact, that was generally how things went in their household.

Jonathan could still remember vividly the time that Jackson stole his inhaler before inducing an asthma attack. Jonathan recalled rolling on the floor, gasping for air until his face turned purple, with Jackson standing above him with his inhaler dangling from his fingers. It wasn't until Jonathan was on the brink of unconsciousness that the Jackson had relented, smiling as Jonathan took frenzied puffs from the inhaler.

The next day, Jonathan had waited for Jackson to come home from school, then knocked him unconscious with a baseball bat. He'd tied Jackson to a chair before leaving him outside, in the middle of January, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans as snowflakes began to fall from the sky. Jonathan watched him from inside, using a timer to gauge the number of minutes it would take Jackson to free himself.

Exactly 23 minutes later, Jackson stood before him, cold, shivering, tired, and out of breath. "Good one," he'd panted. "I'll have to try that sometime."

Theirs was not a usual sibling relationship.

Jonathan remembered the first time Jackson took him out into the woods for one of his "experiments". Jonathan had been 6, Jackson had been eight. For the most part, these experiments involved dissecting dead animals Jackson had found in the forest surrounding their house. Jackson, being older, would bring Jonathan with him to show him all the different ways to take apart animal corpses.

During that first excursion, Jackson had showed him a dead raccoon lying beneath a tree. "See him?" Jackson poked the cadaver with a stick. "My guess is he got half-eaten by something. From the look of the bite marks, it was probably a wolf or a coyote." Jonathan frowned. "How do you know all that?" Jackson had arched an eyebrow and smiled. "What do you think I do when I'm out here? Play hide and seek with myself?" Jonathan shrugged, and Jackson chuckled. "I'd have thought you, of all people, wouldn't be squeamish about a dead animal."

Jonathan had rolled his eyes. "Please." He took a kitchen knife out of his back pocket before proceeding to pick apart the raccoon.

Their parents were never aware of what exactly their sons were doing when they weren't home. Mr. and Mrs. Crane were always out of the house: Mr. Crane was busy with his work at construction sites, and Mrs. Crane was busy doing who-knows-what all day. From when they were very little, Jackson and Jonathan were left alone for most of the day, which was when they developed their cruel games of torture.

Jackson and Jonathan had earned something of a reputation in their neighborhood. By the time they were out of elementary school, people made a point of avoiding the Crane brothers. Jackson had a tendency for warped cruelty from his very first days at school, and he remained a social outcast from then on. When Jonathan had started school himself, all of his classmates had heard rumors about his brother and knew well enough to stay away from him.

Jonathan didn't mind, though; he reveled in the thought that he inspired so much fear among his peers.

There were moments when people were foolhardy, and tried to torment the two boys beyond playground taunting. When Jackson was thirteen, a boy shoved him against a wall, calling him a freak of nature and telling Jackson to try and fight him. Jackson had promptly smashed his forehead against the boy's own, knocking him unconscious. Smiling, Jackson had walked nonchalantly away from the boy's limp form.

At another point in time, when Jonathan was only fourteen, a group of girls had made the mistake of trying to hassle him during school one day. They had stolen his backpack, then crushed his glasses under the heels of their expensive shoes. Jonathan had taken it all in stride until one Saturday night, when said group of girls were scheduled for a sleepover. At about midnight, Jonathan knocked on their front door, then watched in the shadows as the girls answered the door to find a group of smashed up porcelain dolls, each one covered in pigeon's blood (Jackson had been a big help there), with the message "You're next" scrawled on a scrap of paper. Needless to say, the girls were somewhat spooked, even more so when Jonathan made a point of appearing at the girls' window periodically, wearing a variety of horrifying masks.

The coup de grace had come when Jonathan knocked on the door again, and watched as they picked up photos that Jonathan had taken of them throughout the night. Of them screaming, crying, cowering. The back of each of the photos had a message scrawled onto it: "_From yours truly, The Scarecrow." _The looks on their faces were priceless.

Jackson had laughed when Jonathan told him about it. "Nice job, Scarecrow," he'd chuckled. "But if it had been me, I'd have set their hair on fire." Jonathan had arched an eyebrow. "Well, you never were one for subtlety."

Jackson shrugged, lying causally on his bed as he tossed darts at the opposite wall. "I guess I get it from my namesake." Jonathan laughed. "You mean Mom's great-uncle?" Jackson rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I'm talking about Jack the Ripper, dumbass."

Jonathan laughed again. "Right. _You're_ Jack the Ripper." Jackson had frowned. "What's so funny?" "You." Jackson threw another dart at the wall, which hit the wall with a satisfying 'thunk'. "You think I couldn't do what Jack the Ripper did?"  
"Okay, first of all? Jack the Ripper was a holy terror in London. You're just a backwoods hick from Tennessee. Secondly, Jack the Ripper tore apart prostitutes. The worst you've done is take apart the O'Reilly's Doberman. And thirdly? You're name's not Jack, it's Jackson."

Jackson had shrugged. "Same difference. Jackson's not too far off."

"Still, calling yourself Jack isn't going to make you Jack the Ripper."

Jackson smiled, throwing his last dart at the wall. "I could be, if I wanted to." This statement disturbed Jonathan, and he wondered whether or not his brother was kidding. Pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, Jonathan asked, "Jackson, you're not…you're not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?"  
Jackson said nothing, worrying Jonathan all the more. "Jackson, don't think of doing something idiotic just because you think you're tough. We're lucky the neighbors aren't chasing us with pitchforks when their pets go missing…"

"Oh, like you have any right to complain. I've never seen you give a shit when you're using your kitchen knives out in the woods."

"Jackson, it's one thing when we're talking about dogs or cats…"

"Says the guy who just stalked a group of girls for three hours. And borrowed some pigeon's blood to do it, I might add." Jackson rolled over, facing his younger brother. "Since when did you care about other people, Scarecrow?"

"I'm not worried about the other people, I'm worried about _you_. You know that if something bad happens, they'll point fingers right at us." Jonathan frowned when Jackson said nothing. "Are you even listening?"

Jackson turned his attention back to the dart-covered wall, asking quietly, "What do you want to do when we're older?"

Jonathan blinked, not having any idea what Jackson was talking about. "What?"

"When we get older, when we're out of this house…what do you want to do?"

Jonathan shrugged, not having an answer. "We do what Dad does. We work on construction jobs."

Jackson laughed. "Yeah, right. We're weaklings and you know it. We're just scary weaklings."

"Alright, then, what are you planning to do?"

Jackson was silent for a moment before replying. "There's a guy I met in town that's offering me a job. A good one, too. It pays really well, and if I can do one assignment alright, then he'll let me work with them full time."

Jonathan frowned. "What kind of job?"

"He said he'll pay me a thousand dollars just do to one thing for him. If I do it right, he might even pay me more…"

"Yeah, but what is he asking you to _do_?"

Jackson fell silent again. Jonathan would have interrogated him further, but the sound of tires squealing alerted him to the fact that their father had arrived home, meaning that they wouldn't be able to talk openly until the morning. Jonathan glanced at his brother, eyes pleading for an answer.

Jackson merely flashed him a cocky smile, saying, "We'll talk again."

-----

For the next few days, Jackson was nowhere to be found, which worried Jonathan. Rumors circulated through their high school that Jackson had been seen around town with a girl named Anna. Anna, apparently, was new to town, and was the niece of a Mafia honcho. Jonathan tried to hunt for Jackson, but he was nowhere to be found. He wasn't in school, and it seemed as though he wasn't even sleeping at home. Jonathan tried not to think about what he might be up to, but he couldn't stop the nagging feeling in the back of his head that something wasn't right.

Three nights later, Jonathan was bored, so he sat in his bedroom, staring at the ceiling until his vision lost focus. He would have continued to do so for hours if there hadn't been a loud rapping at his window. Confused as to what it might be, Jonathan sat up and peered out his window to see Jackson, looked harried and out-of breath.

Jonathan ran outside. Seeing that Jackson was sweaty, out of breath, and slightly bloody, Jonathan asked him, "Where the hell have you been? What the hell is going on?"  
Trying to catch his breath, Jackson panted, "No time…to explain…I ran…as fast I could…" He pointed in the general direction of the woods. "You have…to help me…bury her…"

"Bury _who?_ What the hell are you talking about?" Jackson grabbed Jonathan by the shoulders, clearly trying to look in control of the situation. "Jonathan…don't ask questions. You just…just help me out, okay?" If Jonathan hadn't known Jackson better, he'd have sworn he was pleading. Jonathan swallowed hard. "O-okay."  
Jackson led him by the hand about fifty feet into the woods, where something large and bloody was badly concealed by a large amount of leaves. Clearing the leaves away, Jackson looked pale and shaken. When the leaves had been cleared away, Jonathan nearly threw up.

"Jackson, you…you _didn't_…"

Underneath the leaves was Anna's bloody corpse, staring at them with wide, frightened eyes. Her throat had obviously been slit, and Jonathan only needed to glance at Jackson to see the guilt on his face.

"Jackson…_why-"_

"I told you that a guy offered me a job. He offered me a thousand dollars to kill her for him." Jonathan noticed that Jackson wouldn't look him in the eye, that all he seemed to be able to focus on was Anna's dead body. "I don't know why he wanted me to. I don't really care. I got the job done, that's all that matters."  
Jonathan stared at him, wide-eyed, not knowing what to say or think or feel. Jackson ignored him, grabbing Anna's body by its arms. "Help me bring her to the backyard. We can bury her there." Jonathan nodded numbly before grabbing Anna's legs and helping Jackson carry her to the backyard.

A few minutes later, Jonathan was crouched in their backyard, staring at Anna's corpse while Jackson rummaged through their shed, looking for a shovel. Numbly staring at the corpse, Jonathan stated quietly, "I thought about what you said last night."

Jackson stopped rummaging for a minute. "Thought about what?"

"The question you asked. About what I'd do once we left here." He paused. "I thought I might make a good doctor. Or a surgeon or something. Hell, you taught me everything about cutting up animals, so I might as well get paid for it."

Jackson smiled a little. "You'd have fun as a shrink. Scare the hell out of your patients."

Jonathan laughed slightly. "Yeah." He took off his glasses, hoping that his vision would be so blurry as to remove the image of a corpse lying in front of him. "It'll never happen, but it's a fun thought."

Jackson came out from the shed, carrying one shovel in each hand. He tossed one to Jonathan. "Here. We need to hurry, before anyone figures…"

Jackson was cut off by the sound of gravel crunching and a revved engine slowly dying. Jonathan realized with a start that their father was home.

"Boys? Jonathan? Jackson? Where the hell are ya?"

Jonathan looked at Jackson. "We have to go. _Now._" He grabbed his brother's wrist, preparing to run for the forest, but Jackson stayed put, staring at Anna's corpse. Panicking, Jonathan hissed, "Forget her, Jackson, we have to get out of here."

Jackson turned to him, and Jonathan noticed how cold and stony his eyes had become. "No." He stated it calmly, as thought it were an irrefutable fact. Jonathan stood there helplessly, until their father's footsteps alerted them to his presence. They turned their heads towards their father, who was gaping at them and at the dead body lying at their feet.

"What…how…" The surprise in his eyes slowly turned to anger, and Jonathan turned to Jackson, his eyes pleading with him to just run now.

Jackson ignored his brother as he calmly pulled a small pistol from his waistband. Before Jonathan could even comprehend what was going on, Jackson had pulled the trigger and fired three shots at their father. As their father fell to the ground, blood forming a lake around his body, Jackson replaced the pistol with the same look of calm with which he'd removed it.

Jonathan, for his part, was horrified. "Oh crap…oh shit…you…" Jonathan tried to continue speaking, but a wave of nausea overcame him. He fell to the ground, throwing up the contents of his stomach onto the lawn. Jackson did nothing, simply staring at the two bodies lying on the grass.

Jonathan weakly sat up, still feeling sick to his stomach. Desperately, he tried to wrap his mind around what he'd just seen: his brother taking out a pistol and shooting his father. His mind replayed it for him, over and over again, but he just couldn't accept it as truth. Feebly, Jonathan looked up at his stony-faced brother.

"Why…how…?"

"We should get to work. It'll take even longer to bury two bodies."

"Jackson, where…where did you get that?"

"Get what?"

"The gun. Where the hell did you get that?"

Jackson said nothing. He just cocked the gun and walked up to Jonathan, stating quite calmly, "Anna's parents are going to notice she's missing eventually. And they're going to figure out who did it. Now, I need to know: are you gonna help me or not?"

A long pause ensued, with the two brothers staring at each other as though truly seeing each other for the first time. Several seconds passed before Jonathan finally nodded. "Alright…I'll help you. But on one condition."

"And what's that?"

"Give me the gun. Now."

Jackson considered this for a moment, looking at Jonathan and then staring at the gun. After a few seconds, he relented, handing the pistol to his younger brother. "Here."  
Jonathan stared at it for a moment, before putting it in his jacket pocket. "Alright…so what do we do now?" Jonathan looked up at his brother, expecting to hear some sort of plan come from his lips. Instead, his brother seemed to be staring past him towards something near the side of the house. Curious, Jonathan turned around to see what his brother was so intent on looking at.

Standing by the side of the house was their mother, looking at them with a horrified expression on her face, her mouth trying desperately to form words. The blood immediately drained from Jonathan's face as he realized that she must have been in the car with their father when he came home. Before either brother could say anything, their mother began screaming bloody murder, staring at their father's corpse with unbelieving eyes.

As their mother stood there screaming, a thousand thoughts passed through Jonathan's mind in a single second. The way she was screaming, someone would hear her and come to investigate. If they did, they would know that Jackson had killed Anna and their father, and if that happened…

Without even thinking, Jonathan reached for the gun and pulled the trigger, shutting his eyes tightly as he could. When he the screaming continued, he shot again and again and again, not letting himself open his eyes. After a few more seconds, Jonathan dropped the gun, knowing without even looking that his mother was dead. Sure enough, when he pried open his eyes, his mother lay on the ground, blood seeping out her lifeless form.

Jackson turned Jonathan, a cold glint in his eye. "Nice job, Scarecrow."

Jonathan, shaking like a leaf in the wind, glared at his brother with hard eyes. "Don't talk to me."

Jackson was silent, watching his brother before looking at the three dead bodies on the lawn. A long pause ensued before Jackson murmured, "The guy who hired me is waiting in town. If the body's not taken care of in an hour, he's gonna leave without me."

Jonathan, still angry at his brother and himself, glowered at Jackson as he replied, "So what the hell are we supposed to do then?"

"We? We do nothing." Jackson clamped his hand down on his brother's wrist, then twisted his arm behind his back, forcing Jonathan to drop the gun. Jackson picked it up quickly, then pointed it at his brother. "_I_, on the other hand, have to take care of all the bodies."

Jonathan stared at him, wide-eyed. "Jackson…Jackson, you wouldn't.."

"Go."

Jonathan blinked. "What?"

"Just go! Go somewhere, anywhere, but just get out of here!"

Jonathan stared at his brother, not quite sure what to say. "Jackson…"

Jackson cocked the gun, still aiming it at his brother. "Go now, or I swear I'll kill you next!"

And with that, Jonathan ran, not looking back once to see his sixteen year-old brother and the three dead bodies lying in their yard.

-----

For the next two hours, Jonathan hid in the woods, not daring to leave them for fear of what he might find. His mind raced with all the things that could possibly be happening back at the house, what with Jackson obviously having lost his mind. But when he thought too hard about it, Jonathan would squeeze his eyes shut and will himself not to think about it.

After about two hours, though, Jonathan's curiosity began to get the best of him. He knew that Jackson had told him to leave, but he couldn't help but wonder what was going on back home. Quietly, he made his way closer to his house, resolving to go as close as he could to his house without actually leaving the woods.

About a half a mile from his house, however, he began to smell smoke.

Heart pounding, Jonathan began walking faster towards his house. As the scent of ashes grew stronger, Jackson began jogging, eventually breaking a full-fledged run. He tried to reassure himself, telling himself that things couldn't possibly get any worse than they already were…

That was when he left the forest and saw that his house was engulfed in flames. A large red fire truck was hosing down the house, but it didn't seem to be helping. At other spots, firemen were shooting separate hoses, while others just stood there doing nothing.

Jonathan, eyes wide, looked around feverishly. Where was Jackson? Where were the bodies? Why were those men just _standing there_?

Jonathan ran towards his house, desperately looking for any sign of his brother. One of the firemen spotted him, however, and grabbed him before he could get too close. "Whoa, whoa! What the hell do y'think you're doin', kid?"

"My brother…my brother…is he inside? I have to find…"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down. Who are you? Is this your house?"

"_Yes_, this is my house! Where's Jackson? What the hell-?"

"Kid…" The fireman's expression softened, and Jonathan realized with a start what had happened.

Jonathan stepped backwards, shaking his head in denial while the fireman looked on in pity. "No…no, it…it couldn't have…"

"Kid, they're all dead. We sent some guys in, and all they found were a bunch of dead bodies." He put his hand on Jonathan's shoulder. "I'm real sorry, kid."

Jonathan said nothing. He wanted to scream at him, to say that this was all his fault, that he'd already known that his parents were dead, that he shouldn't have left Jackson alone with them, that he should have done something to stop him when he'd first started acting weird…

Instead, he just stood there, staring at the man in front of him, and a feeling of numbness swept over him.

-----

A few hours later, Jonathan sat in the police station lobby, hunched over and silent. One of the police officers had brought him cup of hot cocoa, which had made Jackson feel like a little kid stuck playing grown-up. He had said nothing, though, but merely murmured his thanks to the officer.

Try as he might, Jonathan had difficulty accepting the news of his brother's death. To him, it seemed so pointless. Jackson had been doing his best to get away, to cover up what had happened to Anna. Hell, he'd even killed their father in the process. And for what? To die in a house fire? Knowing the dumb bastard, he'd probably been trying to burn the bodies and had set himself on fire instead. It all seemed so stupid, when he'd even killed two people just trying to get away.

And Jonathan had killed their mother…

Jonathan shuddered, repressing that memory as best he could. There was nothing he could do about it now, no way to redeem himself ever again. And he'd done it to save a stupid son of a bitch who'd promptly gone and gotten himself killed. The idiot.

Jonathan snapped out of his reverie when he realized that one of the officers was trying to talk to him.

"Well, we've inspected the house as best we could, but there's not much to go on. Our guess is that it was arson. The bodies are burned to the point of being almost unrecognizable, so our guess is that someone dumped gasoline directly on them before lighting them up. Then the blaze spread to the rest of the house." The officer stared at Jonathan intently, so that Jonathan had to look away and stare at his drink.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

_Jackson_. "No. I don't know."

The officer nodded. "Alright." He adjusted his cap before looking back at Jonathan, who refused to look anywhere but the floor, in the hopes that he might disappear. "I know this is a difficult thing to ask you to do right now, but we need you to identify the bodies. It's standard procedure in a case like this."

Jonathan nodded numbly. "Yeah, sure." He stood up, and began following the police officer, bracing himself for seeing his parents' dead bodies, as well as the bodies of Jackson and Anna.

The officer pushed open the door slowly, then turned to Jackson. "All three bodies are in there. Just go in, and tell us which one belongs to who."

Jackson was about to nod and mutter something agreeable, when he stopped. "Wait…three bodies?"

The police officer frowned. "Yeah, your parents and your brother. Is something the matter?"

Jonathan quickly shook his head. "No…no, nothing's wrong." Inwardly, Jonathan felt his heart race, and he tried to quell it as best he could. But if there were only three bodies…

When Jonathan wandered in, the three bodies were covered in sheets. The officer rolled back the sheets for one, exposing the badly charred face of Mr. Crane. Jonathan nodded quickly, not wanting to linger as memories of his sudden death emerged in Jackson's mind. "That's Dad." The officer nodded before replacing the sheet and moving on to the second body, whose bleached hair was obviously the property of Mrs. Crane. Jonathan shuddered, remembering the cold feel of the gun in his hand, then the sharp scent of gunpowder that was released as he squeezed the trigger. "That's my mom," Jonathan murmured quietly.

The officer nodded again before replacing the sheet and moving on to the third body, rolling the sheet up so that Jonathan could only see as far as the body's upper chest.

Jonathan peered at the body. It has definitely been badly scorched. All of the hair had burned away, and the chest was an unholy wreck. The shoulders were mauled open, and face was almost completely destroyed. The only thing recognizable was a large pair of brown eyes, which immediately told Jonathan that it was Anna's body that he was staring at.

"Yeah," He murmured. "Yeah, that's Jackson."

-----

Thirteen years later, Jonathan smirked calmly at a man cowering beneath him wearing a straightjacket. In one hand, he held a rather eerie mask made of burlap; in the other, he held a canister filled with a highly toxic, weaponized hallucinogen. "Well, Mr. Collins, I'm glad that you decided to participate in this little experiment. I'm sure it must have been unpleasant, so I thank you for your cooperation."  
The man writhed within his straightjacket, unable to escape its binds as he muttered to himself, "Scarecrow…Scarecrow…"

Jonathan smiled. "Well, I suppose that'll end our session."

Making his way out of his patient's room, he turned to his secretary. "Leave a message for Ms. Dawes. Tell her that Mr. Collins has yet to improve, so I stand by my previous statement about his treatment."

The secretary nodded. "Sure thing, Dr. Crane."

Gathering his papers in his arms, Jonathan made his way out into the hall, preparing to leave work for the day. After placing his papers in his briefcase, he closed the lid and made his way towards the exit. He had almost made it out of the building when he was stopped by a squirrelly man wearing a lab coat.

"Dr. Crane! Dr. Crane!"

Jonathan mentally winced. It was Wendell again. Ever since Jonathan had been promoted to head of Arkham Asylum, Wendell had been trying desperately to suck up to him in order to win some favors. So far, all his efforts had done was earn him Jonathan's irritation.

Wendell scurried up to Jonathan, grinning toothily as though they were old friends. "How's the patient, Doc?" Again, Jonathan inwardly winced, this time at Wendell's awfully chummy nickname. "Mr. Collins has yet to improve, so I'm hoping that we'll be able to keep him here at Arkham until he's on the path to rehabilitation. I would hate to see him transferred back to prison when it's obvious that he's still in need of intensive care."

Wendell nodded, obviously not having paid attention to a word of what Jonathan had said. Irritation mounting, Jonathan asked him, "Is there anything you needed to speak to me about?"

Wendell shook his head. "Just figured I'd catch up with you, see how things were." Wendell licked his lips and shot Jonathan a toothy smile, which always meant that he was about to launch into some long-winded story as part of Wendell's desperate attempts at chumminess with his boss.

"So, did you hear about that guy they captured down in Miami?"

Jonathan, knowing full well that he'd hear about him no matter what he said, replied, "No, I haven't."

Wendell smiled, and Jonathan braced himself for a monologue. "This guy tried to kill one of the President's advisors- he's in Homeland Security or some other shit -and he gets caught. He was trying to ram a missile at this guy while he's staying at a hotel. Even creepier, his name's something like Jackson Rippner or something like that."

Jonathan, who had been barely listening, perked up when he heard Wendell mention the name 'Jackson'. "Really now? Is that so?"

"Yeah, he must've had fucked up parents, right? But that's not even the scary part. What happened was, this guy gets locked in a room with three cops in a jail cell. He's handcuffed to his chair. Not to mention that he's been stabbed in the leg, the neck, and shot twice. There's no windows in the room, and only one door. Well, he gets locked in this room with the three cops so they can interrogate him, and nothing happens for a while. About an hour and a half later, somebody goes in to check on all of them. They find three dead cops, and a message on the wall: 'We'll talk again.' Spooky, huh?"

Jonathan nodded slowly, absorbing this information. "I see…" He turned back to the other doctor. "Well, in any case, Dr. Howards, I'm leaving for the day. I suppose we'll have to chat some other time."

Wendell nodded, seeming to be disappointed. "Well, if that's the case…"

"Good day."

Walking out of the building, Jonathan made his way towards a newspaper stand, suddenly feeling like the fourteen year-old boy who had realized that his house was on fire. Spotting a newspaper vending machine, he fed it two quarters and ripped a copy of the paper from it. Reading hungrily, the front page article stated:

"Miami police are currently searching for a man named 'Jackson Rippner', who is now accused with murder , attempted murder…" The mug shot showed a man in his late twenties, with piercing blue eyes and a sardonic grin that Jonathan couldn't help but match. After all of these years, Jackson didn't seem to have changed much to Jonathan. Stuffing the newspaper in his pocket, Jonathan made his way to his car, smiling all the way.

And thus, the Scarecrow entered the darkness of the night, grinning from ear to ear.


	2. No One Ever Said Insanity Was Taboo

I can't believe it.

I actually finished Chapter Two. After handwriting the whole damn thing, editing it, re-editing it, rewriting some of it, typing it all up, and then editing some more, I have _actually finished it_.

I also presented the previous chapter to my writing class, and everyone seemed to like it. Though apparently I gave my teacher and one student nightmares. In any case, out of all of the people I showed the story, the only person who didn't like it was my mother. One kid did say, "I'm pretty sure they'd have noticed if 'Jackson' had ovaries." But he also said, "The ending's good, so I guess it's okay."

Anyway…

Some parts of this chapter may be confusing at first, because this chapter was supposed to go on a lot longer than it is right now. I ended up cutting it when I realized how much I'd already written for just the first half. Anyway, if there's anything that leaves you confused in the chapter, it'll probably be cleared up in subsequent chapters.

THE ONE WARNING: There are no warnings. Proceed with caution.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_No One Ever Said Insanity Was Taboo_

----------

_Jackson had earned the nickname 'Jack the Ripper' when he was fourteen years old. As a freshman in high school, almost all of the upperclassmen didn't realize (or had forgotten) what a frightening person Jackson truly was. Whatever rumors they heard about his torture of fellow students or the dead animals in his backyard seemed to go in one ear and out the other. All they could see when they looked at him was a pale, scrawny kid._

_Too often, older students made a point of taunting Jackson or shoving him around, drawn to the fact that he was both a loner and a weakling. Jackson tolerated it for a while, knowing that his tormentors were stronger than him, and that, in time, he would get his sweet revenge._

_That didn't stop his temper, though, and it took all his self-control not to throttle some of them. His notebooks were soon littered with drawings of dead students, all of them decapitated or mutilated in the most grotesque fashions imaginable. Jackson would soothe himself by telling himself, over and over again, that they'd get theirs soon enough._

_One day, Jackson was eating lunch in the school cafeteria. Behind him, a senior from the football team was making out with his daily blowjob provider, noisily moaning and cooing at each other, pretending that they weren't both sleeping with other people when their backs were turned. Jackson all but threw up from having to listen to them._

_After a few minutes of this agony, Jackson turned around, stating, "Would it kill you two to go find a room!" He gave a disgusted sigh before turning back to his sandwich, knowing full well that the jock was going to retaliate, probably in a painful manner._

"_What the fuck's his problem? Were we bothering him?"_

"Nope."

Jackson turned around again, smirking, "My problem is that I'm trying to eat, yet I seem to have a B-grade porn going on directly next to me."

The jock laughed stupidly, as though Jackson had just said something hilariously idiotic. "Did you hear that? Bet you he's jealous 'cuz he's never had a girl in his life."

"Well, at least I'm not screwing a girl that's cheating on you with the rest of the football team."

Jackson found it inwardly hysterical, the way that their jaws seemed to drop in unison. The jock turned to his girl toy, then looked back at Jackson. The girl stammered for a minute, saying, "It's not true, Steve! This guy's just being pissy."

Jackson smiled coldly. "I wouldn't get so defensive if I were you. After all, he's been sleeping with the head of the cheerleading squad ever since she got her implants done."

The football player stammered for a minute before turning beet red, screeching, "I ain't gonna listen to somebody talk about me or my girl like that!"

"Too late, you already hav-"

_Jackson was cut off when the football player's fist connected unceremoniously with his jaw. Jackson fell out of his chair, blood flowing out of his face. The football jock walked over to him and kicked him square in the stomach._

"_That'll teach you, you son of a bitch."_

Jackson said nothing. He simply lay there as students gathered around to see what had happened, his jaw now aching like a royal bitch.

_A few days later, Jackson had missed his bus and was wandering through the almost empty hallways, heading to his locker so that he could get his books and hitchhike home. He hardly even noticed the figure in the corner of his eye until he was at his locker, gathering his books._

_Standing at the other end of the hallway was the football jock, smirking stupidly and watching Jackson like a lion watches an antelope. Jackson continued gathering his things, pretending not to see him as he tried to figure out what exactly he was planning to do._

_Knowing the way these upperclassmen worked, Jackson was willing to bet that the jock wouldn't confront him at his locker. There were still some people lingering around. No, the jock would wait until they were in an empty hallway or room before exacting his revenge. Jackson racked his brain for an area of the school that would be clear at this time of the day._

_The art wing._

_Jackson threw on his backpack and shut his locker before walking nonchalantly in the direction of the art wing. As he had suspected, the jock followed him from a good distance, oblivious to the fact that Jackson could sense his presence._

_As Jackson made his way down the art wing, he headed for the room furthest from the rest of the building. He wanted to make sure that no one would see or hear anything that happened in there, and that seemed to be the best location. He quietly entered the room, shutting the door behind him before he went to work. He knew he only had a few seconds before the jock would come in._

_The jock, who still thought that Jackson had no idea that he was following him, jogged up to the art room door. He put his ear against the wood of the door, and, not hearing any sounds other than Jackson's footsteps, determined that it was safe to go in. Grinning, he quickly pushed open the door, hoping to scare the younger boy._

_He was swiftly greeted by a metal folding chair to the forehead._

_The football player grunted in pain before falling to the ground, unconscious. Jackson kicked him in the side, making sure that he was in no state to fight back. After making sure that he was, in fact, out cold, Jackson hit him a few more times with the folding chair, just for the hell of it._

_Having satisfied himself with that much, Jackson pulled out the Exacto knife he had raided from the art supply closet. Smiling, Jackson unceremoniously flipped the larger boy onto his stomach. He rolled up the boy's shirt, exposing his pink, fleshy back. Jackson flicked the cap off of the tiny blade, a maniacal look on his face as he made a series of sharp, shallow cuts in the boy's back._

_For the next week, the football team was missing its star receiver. Rumor had it that he was in the hospital for a concussion, though no one seemed to know how or why. When he returned to school, he seemed almost unwilling to talk about it. Whenever anyone questioned him about his hospital stay, he would become defensive, snapping that it was nobody else's business._

_The secret stayed well-hidden, until the football team's next practice. Try as he might to hide it, the entire team saw that his back was covered in a series of long, white scars. Even stranger, the scars seemed to connect to form letters, spelling out an eerie message:_

"BEWARE THE REVENGE OF JACK THE RIPPER."

The rumors spread rapidly once the jock told the "real story" regarding his stay at the hospital. Apparently, Jackson had been out to get him for weeks now, for reasons that the jock seemed unable to contemplate. Jackson had cornered him in the art room, screeching incoherently about nothing in particular before hammering him on the head with the folding chair.

_Jackson didn't care that everyone was spreading blatant lies about the incident. If anything, he encouraged them. Before, he had been the pale weakling that couldn't put up a fight if he tried. Now, he was an entity of terror, a demon roaming the hallways. He was respected. He was feared._

_It was the beginning of Jackson Crane's demise, and of Jackson Rippner's birth from the ashes._

----------

Jackson squinted as he stared up at the grungy apartment building in front of him. The wood was rotting, the bricks were covered in graffiti, and the litter by the front of the building left a pungent smell.

Jackson glanced once again at the scrap of paper in his fingers. _815 Norman Avenue, the Narrows, Apartment #48_. Again, Jackson looked up at the number of the apartment building. Eight fifteen.

Jackson quickly opened his briefcase, checking it to make sure that everything inside was still safe and intact. After assuring himself that everything was, in fact, still in the briefcase, Jackson stuffed the scrap of paper inside. He ran a hand through the blond wig on his head, still reeling from the smell of the surrounding buildings. Quietly, he made his way up the steps to the apartment complex, trying his best not to be noticed.

----------

On the other side of the Narrows, Jonathan Crane was exiting Arkham Asylum with a migraine pounding furiously against his skull. It had been a long day of dealing with psychopaths, and matters hadn't been helped by an impromptu visit from Rachel Dawes. His ears were still ringing from having to listen to her indignant screeching.

"_I don't care what you say about Tom Collins' diagnosis, he is a murderer! A murderer! I don't give a shit whether or not he's mentally ill, he should be punished. And isn't it a little convenient that this is the second time that a thug linked to Falcone has been put away in your asylum, where there's lax security and piss whine moan bitch indignation complain anger huff dismissal."_

Whiny bitch.

Jonathan fumbled for his car keys for a few seconds before unlocking his car, the migraine continuing its painful throbbing.

Despite what Ms. Dawes might have believed, Tom Collins was most definitely not sane. At least, not any more. The toxin that Jonathan had been developing had left irreversible brain damage, leaving Mr. Collins a gibbering mess.

By Jonathan's watch, the damage had been complete within twenty minutes.

Remembering this, Jonathan smiled a little as he drove away from Arkham. He'd been developing his fear toxin for months, and it had been completed only recently. As of late, Jonathan had been focusing less on effectiveness and more on the effects of different concentrations. A light amount gave the victim hallucinations, but could be cured if given the antidote within twenty-four hours. With a medium dose, the victim would need to be cured within six hours. A concentrated dose would leave you practically brain-dead within a half-hour.

Jonathan would have good news to tell Ducard.

----------

Back at the apartment, Jackson glanced around the room. He noted his surroundings with a vague curiosity as he entered the apartment, putting his briefcase down by the door. He shut the door behind him firmly before proceeding any further.

The room seemed much cleaner than Jackson had expected, having seen the building's exterior. There was no dust on the shelves, nothing lying on the ground, and everything was stacked neatly away. Jackson shuddered when he considered the compulsive cleanliness that would be necessary to maintain such a tidy abode.

The place seemed completely awash in beiges and grays, and the only splashes of color were faded and dull. Nothing in the room was put there for decoration; not a plant, not a picture, not even a nice rug. The only windows in the room were small and covered with drab, white drapes. The rooms had the cold, sterile feeling of a morgue. Even the air seemed to go still and die. Basically, it was an interior decorator's version of hell.

Jackson wandered around, trying to get a feel for the place. Try as he might, though, the whole apartment was…nothingness.

Jackson fumbled around with a doorknob off to the side before making his way into the apartment's bathroom. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Jackson stared quizzically at his reflection. Staring back was a blond man, his hair containing streaks of gray that betrayed a hint of some age. His dull brown eyes stared at Jackson, the light wrinkles in his skin suggesting that he was in his later forties or early fifties.

Jackson smirked before ripping the wig off his head and removing the contacts from his eyes. He then took a wash towel and began rubbing off the makeup that caked his skin.

Five minutes later, Jackson's brown-haired, blue-eyed, twenty-nine year-old self was reflected on the mirror's surface.

Smiling, Jackson picked up the wigs and the contacts and returned to the front part of the apartment. He opened his briefcase, shoved the items inside, then carried the suitcase with him as he went over to a grey, depressing sofa. Plopping the suitcase down next to him, Jackson decided to get comfortable inside this morgue of an apartment, even if it killed him. It wasn't as though he had much of a choice.

----------

Jonathan slammed his car door shut as he exited the vehicle, irritated by the bad drivers that he'd had to endure throughout the rush hour traffic. Tailgating, rubbernecking, general recklessness…he'd been tempted to deliberately crash his car into some of them, just so they'd never bother him again. He'd managed to keep that particular urge under control, but cold composure was difficult to maintain with a rising temper.

In any case, Jonathan was not in the kindest of moods as he made his way up the stairs to his apartment. Knowing how things had gone throughout the day, Jonathan expected to find rats running around everywhere, an angry notice from his landlord about forgetting the rent that he'd already paid, and a bitchy message from Rachel Dawes on his answering machine.

Turning the knob on the apartment door, Jonathan was surprised to find it unlocked. Pushing it open cautiously, Jonathan half expected to see all his possessions either missing or destroyed.

Instead, he saw his mirror image sitting on his sofa, smiling non-chalantly as though his appearance were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Hey there, baby brother."

----------

_Jackson had continued to be enamored with Jack the Ripper even after the incident in the art room. After a few months of testing his new title, he became frightened by the fact that, despite using his name everywhere, Jackson still didn't know very much about the man. Jackson decided that he'd have to do what he thought he'd never do, ever since he'd first learned to hate school and everything it stood for:_

_He decided to do research._

_After finding several books on the topic at the library, Jackson could be found curled up in the room he shared with Jonathan, simply reading and marveling at the murderer of so many years past. What his parents thought of this, he never found out. The likelihood was that they never even noticed. Jonathan, on the other hand, seemed puzzled to no end by Jackson's change of behavior._

"_What are you reading?" he'd ask, a curious expression crossing his face before he attempted to look nonchalant._

"_None of your business," Jackson would snap before he went on to read about the horrors done to Mary Kelly and others._

_Jackson's reputation as 'Jack the Ripper' or 'Ripper Jr.' became more and more widespread throughout school, lending him more of a reputation. Not that he needed any more, but it still amused him. Watching kids twice his size and four years older than him specifically avoid him also made him crack a smile. It even got to the point where a freshman girl bumped into him in the hallway, saw who she had bumped into, then proceeded to burst into tears._

_Jackson couldn't get enough of this. The strength he felt, the empowerment of it all…it was like a drug that swept over him every time someone tried to avoid his gaze. And as it continued, Jackson set out to do things more and more horrifying, just so that his reputation wouldn't wear off in time._

_He remembered one particular instance when he'd walked by a science room where a group of students were about to dissect frogs. The frog corpses caught Jackson's eye, and he paused in the doorway of the biology classroom, grinning toothily. Eventually, the biology teacher noticed him standing there, and it almost seemed as if the poor man froze._

_Jackson grinned even more. Word about him had reached the teachers, too._

"_Is there something I can help you with, uh…"_

Jackson leaned against the doorway, glancing around casually. "It's Jack."

"Jack…" The teacher said it as though it were painful, as though he were uttering some sort of blasphemy that he prayed would never reach his ears, "…is there something you want here?"

Jackson watched the other students out of the corner of his eye, seeing their discomfort and their nervousness. "Nothing, really. I just wanted to see what all of you were doing here."

The teacher swallowed. "We're about to dissect some frogs now, so if you wouldn't mind…"

"Oh, really? And what kind of dissections are you going to be doing?"

Again the teacher swallowed anxiously, and he practically stuttered when he replied, "Well, first we'll be making incisions in the chest area, then examining the heart..."

Jackson laughed. "The heart? That's all you're looking for?" The teacher began to respond, then thought better of it and remained quiet. Jackson smiled. "The heart's easy, once you know what you're doing." He strolled over to the lab table, where one scrawny boy sat with his frog in front of him. Ignoring the boy, Jackson took the frog out of its dissecting dish, choosing to plop it down on the flat surface of the lab table. Having done that, he pinched the skin of the frogs chest, making a tiny tear in the skin. Having done so, he used his fingers to slowly pull open the skin over the frog's chest. Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson could see the other students wince.

_Having opened up the skin of the chest cavity, Jackson reached in and snapped open the dead frog's ribcage. Some of the students gasped, and almost all of them looked sick. The coup de grace came when Jackson plunged his hand in and pulled out the frog's tiny heart, holding it in his bloody palm and forever sealing his reputation as the town psychopath._

"_Is this what you were looking for, teach?"  
_

----------

If Jonathan was at all surprised to see Jackson sitting in his apartment when he arrived home, he certainly didn't show it. Instead, he calmly put down his briefcase, took off his coat, removed his glasses, then stared calmly at his older brother.

Jackson, not having expected such a calm reaction, stared back, smiling, in the hopes that Jonathan would be the one to break the silence. As the minutes passed, however, Jackson's smile slowly faded. Jonathan was remaining cold and silent, which bothered him. It also confused Jackson; he hadn't seen his brother in thirteen years, and he'd expected…well, he wasn't sure what he'd expected. Joy? Surprise? Astonishment? Hell, anything was better than the stony silence he was getting now.

After a few more minutes, Jackson cleared his throat, stating jovially, "Long time, no see, Scarecrow."

Jonathan continued with his calm stare for a few more seconds. Then, he turned to his left and walked towards the kitchen area, not saying a word or even pretending to acknowledge his brother's presence.

Jackson blinked before pretending to look hurt. "Aw, now, no hello? Not happy to see me, Scarecrow?" Jonathan continued to remain silent, rummaging through his refrigerator for a drink.

Jackson frowned, then stood up and walked over to where his brother was standing. Pretending that Jonathan wasn't ignoring him, Jackson reached inside the open refrigerator, grabbing a beer that looked so old that it was gathering dust. Jovially, he asked, "So, how are things here, Scarecrow? I heard you're a big-time doctor now. How's that working for you?"

Jonathan simply grabbed a bottle of Diet Coke, unscrewing the cap before walking back to the sofa. Jackson followed him, still talking. "Well, I suppose you'd like that just fine. You'd get to run around all day with a bunch of motherfuckers that are just as crazy as you. Sounds like your kind of fun."

Jonathan sipped his drink, staring straight ahead as he sat on the sofa, not seeming to see or hear anything. Jackson was growing increasingly frustrated, wondering why his brother was acting so cold. They hadn't seen each other in over a decade, yet Jonathan seemed not to care. The fact that he seemed so indifferent bothered Jackson more than he'd like to admit.

Jonathan stood up, brushing past Jackson as he headed to another part of the apartment. Jackson, not willing to let his brother go without a fight, grabbed the younger man's shoulder as he walked past.

When Jackson's hand touched Jonathan's shoulder, Jonathan jumped about a mile in the air. He whirled around, his face bearing an expression of anger, surprise, and vulnerability.

"Get your hand off of me."

----------

_With his title firmly in place and his reputation ever worsening, Jackson spent the next two years as the most feared student at his high school. No one dared to bother him, and the rumors about him circulated about him like mad. One day, someone would say he was the devil incarnate. The next day, others would say that he was a Nazi. Day after that, someone would say that he was a spy._

_Silently, he laughed at these rumors, but he never dared deny any of them. They were what gave him the status of a local celebrity. They were what gave him power over others._

_Over those two years, however, his reputation starting getting to him. At first, all it had done was give him confidence. However, that confidence soon turned into unmitigated ego._

_The more people feared him, the higher Jackson thought of himself. He knew full well that his ego was bloated, but he honestly didn't care: if everyone was terrified of him, then what was the point of being humble?_

_In the end, only one person seemed to not give a damn about Jackson's reputation: Jonathan. In a way, Jackson both hated this and respected this. He hated that his brother was not so easily awed, but he respected his high tolerance for fear._

_He remembered lying on his bed in the room they both shared. He was drawing crude pictures of dismembered corpses while Jonathan did his homework on his own bed._

_Frustrated, Jonathan crumpled up a ball of paper, tossing it away from him as he stared at his textbook._

"_Jackson do you know anything about proofs?"_

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "Have I ever given a shit about math before?"

Jonathan slammed his textbook closed. "I hate this! I hate these stupid math problems, and it's even worse when there aren't even any numbers!"  
  
Jackson chuckled a little. "Why are you getting so worked up about math?"

"Because I have the math teacher from hell, that's why!"

_Jackson said nothing, gleefully returning to his macabre sketches as Jonathan continued his rambling. Jackson was sketching a woman who had been strangled to death with her own intestines. The blood flowed delicately down her neck to form a small pool around her head, giving her the appearance of having a grotesque halo._

_Jackson thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen._

_Not noticing his brother's distraction, Jonathan continued his nerdy ramblings to no one in particular about his demonic math teacher._

"…_and she keeps going on and on about how logarithms are so easy! I mean, is she on crack! How the fuck thinks logarithms are easy!"_

_Noticing that he wasn't getting a response, Jonathan turned to watch Jackson continue his sadistic doodling. After a long pause, Jonathan stated blankly, "You're not even pretending to listen, are you?"_

Ignoring his brother's question, Jackson handed the drawing over to his brother. "Here. What do you think?"

Jonathan frowned. "What the hell is it supposed to be?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Guess."

Jonathan pushed his glassed further up his nose, then peered at the sketch as though clinically analyzing it. "It's a fallen tree?"

Jackson gave off an exasperated sigh, as though this were the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "No." He pointed to the woman's neck. "She got strangled to death with her own intestines. See?"

Jonathan looked at it again before replying. "You really suck at drawing."

_Jackson snatched away the piece of paper. "Idiot."_

Jackson was always frustrated by Jonathan's lack of fear whenever they spoke. Hell, he was able to send everyone in his school running, yet he couldn't do anything to frighten Jonathan. But, then again, Jonathan was the master of fear; he reveled in his own fear and the fear of others.

_It was a challenge, day to day, to try and scare Jonathan, but he was a savvy kid, and he knew most of Jackson's tricks ahead of time. This was even more infuriating for Jackson, who never seemed to know what exactly Jonathan would be up to next. And that scared him. He hated to admit it, but sometimes, Jonathan scared the shit out of him._

_Jonathan leaned back on a pile of pillows on his mattress before asking, "You planning something again, Jackson? You know, with the drawing."_

Snapping out of his reverie, Jackson smiled cruelly. "I was thinking of trying this out in the woods."

Jonathan considered this. "Got any ideas on what?"

Jackson thought for a moment. "Janet Rutt's cat keeps meowing its head off at night."

Jonathan nodded in agreement. "One intestine-strangled cat, coming right up." He looked over and saw that his brother was still staring at his sketch. "You gonna make out with that thing or what?"

"_Oh, fuck you."_

_Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "Why are you so into that thing, any way?"_

Jackson shrugged. "It's a step."

"A step? A step to what?"

Jackson turned to his brother, giving him a cruelly gleeful smile. "A step towards making them all afraid. Of me. Of us. By the time we leave this place, I want everyone in this fucking town to run away whenever one of us shows up."

Jonathan stared at him for a second, then laughed nervously. "You're not a god, you know."

It was Jackson's turn to laugh. "God? I don't wanna be God." He smirked. "I wanna be the devil."

----------

Jonathan moved away from his brother, his cold mask having replaced his look of surprise. Jackson followed him, knowing that his brother was going nowhere in particular, just so he could avoid Jackson.

Jackson was frustrated. This wasn't the teenage kid of thirteen years ago that he had expected to find. It bruised Jackson's ego to think that Jonathan couldn't give a damn that he was there. Starting to lose his temper, Jackson decided to at least get Jonathan to keep talking.

"You mad at me, Scarecrow?"

Again, the silent treatment.

"Well, I have to say, Scarecrow, I'm surprised. I mean, I come into your apartment, and what do I find? The saddest bachelor pad in existence."

Jonathan said nothing, but Jackson could see him wearing a dark look on his face.

"I mean, I'd have thought I'd find something indicating that an actual human being lived here. A TV, a radio, a computer, maybe. Photos of friends, girlfriends, whatever the hell kind of family you had when I left. I thought I'd at least find a membership card to the fucking bowling league or something."

Jonathan sat down while Jackson remained standing. Jonathan looked adamantly away from his brother, but Jackson could see the muscles in his mouth tighten.

He smiled. "You are mad at me, aren't you?"

More silence.

"You don't like to hear about that, do you? The fact that you have no life outside of that psychiatry job of yours. Even if you are in charge of the damn place, it still must be frustrating. No friends, no family, no hobbies. Nothing to focus on but your patients. And patients don't make the best company. After all, they're insane. But I suppose you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Jonathan chose not to respond. Instead, without looking at Jackson, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"What, I can't check up on my younger brother. I can't wonder how he's been, what he's been doing for the last thirteen years?

Jonathan seemed hardly convinced. "You waited thirteen years to investigate? Did that particular urge just appear recently, or is thirteen your lucky number?"

Jonathan was taunting back. _Here_ was the boy of thirteen years ago.

"What, are you hurt? Is that the reason for the silent treatment? Were you worried that I was out with other boys and wouldn't come back to take you to prom?"

Jonathan made a look that clearly stated that he thought Jackson was being an ass. Jackson merely replied, "Don't act so offended. That's it, isn't it? You're pissed because big bad Jackson went off by himself, and you got left behind."

Jonathan stayed quiet, then reached for the briefcase that had been sitting at his side. Jackson walked back over to the kitchen area before throwing out his beer, which he hadn't even opened. It looked disgusting, anyway.

"Have you got any good drinks or-…"

Jackson would have continued, but when he turned back towards the den, he saw his brother watching him from beneath a burlap mask, a crude, seamed smile stitched into the fabric. A hangman's noose hung limply around his neck, adding a further touch of the sinister to his whole appearance.

But the most frightening part of it was Jonathan's cold blue eyes, which seemed to shine from beneath the burlap, smiling cruelly at Jackson's confusion.

Jackson laughed nervously. "What's this, Scarecrow?"

Jonathan didn't respond. Instead, a spray of powder filled the air. Surprised, Jackson gasped, inhaling the powder. As soon as he did, it seemed as though the real world had oozed away.

The seams of Jonathan's mask elongated to become hissing snakes that writhed and rattled ferociously. The walls melted away and became oceans of blood, with familiar corpses bobbing at the surface. The air filled with the sound of bullets whizzing by, and Jackson felt a sudden stab of pain in his shoulder. Looking down, he saw blood dribbling out of him like a river, and he felt nauseous and dizzy.

Glancing around helplessly, everything Jackson saw transformed into horrific images. As the dizziness swirled through his head like a drug, Jackson felt himself fall to the ground. His eyes began to close, and he knew he was losing consciousness. The last thing he saw was Scarecrow, standing in the center of the void, eyes blazing with the fire of triumph.


	3. Blood and Vodka

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.

THE ONE WARNING: I DO NOT GIVE WARNINGS. I've been saying this from day one, but I'll say it again. Do NOT read this story if you are easily upset or offended. I mean it. Please do not read any further if simply reading a fanfic might horrify or disgust you.

----------

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Blood's Only Thicker Than Water If You Stir in Some Vodka_

----------

_As Jackson and Jonathan slowly grew older, they started to realize that there were, in fact, downsides to being the unholy terrors of their neighborhood. It wasn't that they ever planned on ending their bizarre antics; it was just that they began to discover that being thought of as the devil incarnate wasn't all rainbows and butterflies._

_Jonathan remembered one afternoon when Jackson stormed into their bedroom, obviously in a bad mood. Jonathan looked up from his book to see his brother pacing frantically, running his hand through his hair every few seconds._

"_Something wrong?" Jonathan asked dryly, not really needing an answer._

"_It's…it's…" Jackson shook his head. "It's girls! They don't make any fucking sense!"_

_Jonathan rolled his eyes. "You've just discovered what most six year-olds could tell you at the playground?"_

Jackson ignored that comment. "I mean, is there some sort of handbook you can buy? Some guide that lets you know how to deal with these fucking bitches! I mean, come on!"

Jonathan smiled knowingly before putting down his book and asking, "What's her name?"

Jackson looked slightly startled before replying, "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, c'mon, you can't tell me that you're just randomly ranting about girls for no reason. Let's face it: you got rejected, right?"

"Oh, fuck you."

Jonathan smiled assuredly before picking up his book and pretending to read. Jackson paced for a few more seconds, glancing at his brother every now and then before stating abruptly, "She's in my art class."

"A-HA!" Jonathan sat straight up, a triumphant expression on his face. "I knew it!"

"_Go to hell," Jackson shot back. Even though his older brother looked genuinely annoyed, Jonathan ignored his reaction, asking him, "So, what's she like?"_

Jackson ran his hand through his hair. "She's one of those quiet girls. You know, the kind that doesn't talk much and always seems to be sitting in the corner? She's really good at painting, and she's painted some really nice shit."

Jonathan nodded, listening carefully. "What's her name?"

There was a long pause while Jonathan waited for an answer. After many seconds of silence, Jonathan sighed and asked, "You have no idea, do you?"

Sheepishly, Jackson mumbled, "I keep trying to find out, but it hasn't gone so well…"

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. What does any of this have to do with your whole little rant?"

Jackson stopped pacing, standing in one spot as he shrieked, "She's scared of me!"

Jonathan blinked. "Huh?"

"She's scared of me! I tried to talk to her during class, and she ran away from me!"

Jonathan peered at Jackson over the brim of his glasses. "Jackson, I'm not sure if you realize this, but everyone is scared of you."

_Jackson didn't seem to hear him as he continued his shrieking. "I mean, seriously! I just told her that I liked her painting, and she starts hiding off to the side as though I'm gonna slit her throat!"_

Jonathan replies again by rolling his eyes. "How dare she. What on earth would make her think that you, the paragon of virtue and epitome of kindness, would be in the least bit frightening? It's a mystery that shall last throughout the ages."

Jackson sat down on the end of his bed, shaking his head slowly. Jonathan was about to reach for his book again when Jackson stood up suddenly and announced, "I'm gonna go kill something in the woods. Wanna come?"

Jonathan blinked, surprised by the sudden change in mood. "Um, sure."

Jackson nodded, and the two brothers went off to go wreak some bloody destruction.

----------

Jackson lay on Jonathan's couch, sleeping fitfully as he writhed and moaned his way through fearsome dreams. The fear toxin had taken its effect, and Jackson had spent the last two hours in the midst of terrible nightmares. Try as he might to fight off these visions, Jackson couldn't escape his hallucinated hell.

And so the torture continued.

Less than two feet away, Jonathan sat in a wooden chair, a notebook resting on his knee and a pen in between his fingers. He watched Jackson's misery with something akin to fascination. As his brother shuddered and trembled his way through hellish nightmares, Jonathan drank it in like an intoxicating drug. Far from feeling compassion for his ailing brother, he had to maintain professional self-control to keep himself from pushing his brother's mind to the brink of collapse.

The dark, twisted part of Jonathan loved to watch the mind's slow descent into madness, whether it was his mind or someone else's. The first time that he'd accidentally sprayed himself with the toxin, he had stumbled his way through visions of chaos, feeling an overwhelming sense of terror that had been almost like being high. While most people got their kicks from sex or drugs or booze, Jonathan felt most alive when the scent of fear filled the air.

Tonight was no different. Watching Jackson's panic only intoxicated Jonathan, giving him a sense of rushing pleasure. For him, there was nothing like it.

The notebook Jonathan had was covered in clinical, detailed notes. They were clipped, medical sentences regarding Jackson's descent into the world of chaotic horror. Reading them, a person wouldn't think that these two had ever met, much less turn out to be brothers.

Jonathan watched carefully as Jackson's eyes fluttered open, pupils dilated and sweat pouring down his face. "Sc-…Sca-…"

Jonathan was unfazed. This had already happened several times throughout the night. He hurriedly scribbled notes onto the pages of his notebook.

"10:11 PM: Patient has awoken for the third times since inhaling toxin. Does not seem fully conscious. Has repeatedly called for 'Scarecrow', but has difficulty speaking. Am unable to determine whether he is calling for help or is reacting to Scarecrow image from initial intoxication. Has been sweating increasingly in the last hour."

Jonathan frowned. He wondered whether or not Jackson was developing a fever. It wouldn't be unusual, given that this was one of the stages where the body was weakest.

Jonathan put down his notebook, still frowning slightly as the sweat rolled down his brother's skin. He walked over to the bathroom, fumbling around his medicine cabinet for some kind of thermometer. After a few seconds of searching, Jonathan's hand alighted on a narrow, plastic thermometer.

Returning to the den area, Jonathan saw that Jackson was still calling out weakly, "Scare…Scarecrow…"

Jonathan returned to his chair, thermometer in hand. He grabbed his brother's chin and roughly turned his head to face him.

"Jackson."

Jackson seemed not to hear him, merely staring past Jonathan and murmuring incoherently.

Firmly, Jonathan spoke to his gibbering brother. "Jackson, open your mouth." Weakly, Jackson shook his head. "Poison…poison…"

"Jackson, this is a thermometer. I need you to open your mouth so I can see if you have a fever." Again, Jackson shook his head. "Gonna…gonna kill…poison…"

"_Jackson._"

No reaction, just more unintelligible jabbering.

Frustrated, Jonathan put down the thermometer. Using his left hand, he grabbed Jackson's chin roughly. Then, using his right hand, he slapped him hard against the face in the hopes of knocking some sense into him.

Still nothing. Jackson's head lolled limply on the arm of the couch. Jonathan bit his lip, frustrated. He picked up the thermometer before reaching over and using his left hand to pry open Jackson's lips and chattering teeth. Once he did that, he stabbed the thermometer hard into the back of Jackson's mouth.

When the thermometer slammed nearly into the back of his throat, Jackson started to gag while gasping for air. Jonathan held Jackson's head firmly with one hand, holding the thermometer with the other as he frowned like a teenage babysitter dealing with an especially unruly child.

After a few more forceful minutes, Jonathan extracted the thermometer. As he did so, Jackson gasped desperately, coughing and hacking as his eyes wildly scanned the horrific demons that danced before him.

Jonathan checked the thermometer's reading. One hundred and two degrees Fahrenheit.

Without missing a beat, Jonathan picked up his notebook and began to jot notes about his newest discovery.

"10:15 PM: Patient's symptoms seem to be worsening. Manages to speak in broken fragments, but the meaning of his words are still unclear. Has begun to shake more and more violently. Current temperature: 102 degrees Fahrenheit."

Jonathan looked to see Jackson wrapping his arms tightly around his chest, his eyes shut tightly as though doing so would end the psychological torture he was being forced to endure.

"Cold…so cold…fucking freezing…"

Jonathan took note of this. Jackson seemed to be losing consciousness again, since his eyelids were slacking and his words were becoming fainter.

"So…frigging cold…"

Jonathan watched interestedly as Jackson slipped back into fitful dreams.

Calmly, Jonathan put his notebook and pen down in a neat pile on the floor before making his way over to his closet. Reaching up to a shelf over his head, he grabbed a thick, fleece blanket and pulled it off the shelf. Jonathan carried it over his shoulder until he reached his sleeping brother. Looking at him once again, Jonathan noticed that he seemed to have settled down, save for his quiet, unconscious murmurings and squirming. Jonathan pulled the blanket off of his shoulder before dumping it on top of his sleeping sibling before sitting down in his chair.

After a few seconds, Jackson's shivering decreased, and Jonathan watched his steady breathing until his lids felt heavy and he drifted off to sleep.

----------

_That first incident with the female gender had occurred when Jackson was fourteen and Jonathan was twelve. For about a year and a half more, Jonathan watched as Jackson continued to have frustrating encounters with the opposite gender. _

_There was Erika, the sweet, quiet girl who ended up stealing fifty dollars from him when he wasn't looking. There was Lauren, the hyperactive girl in his gym class who'd accidentally hit him across the face with a volleyball. There was Elise, who seemed to know the musical score of every Broadway show backwards and forwards. And then there was Kiera, who Jackson had never met before until one day at the local bowling alley. They'd gotten along all right until her 6' 4" boyfriend showed up and threatened to kill him. Jackson had gotten back at him by slaughtering his dog and leaving the head on a stick._

_Needless to say, Kiera hadn't been too fond of him after that._

_Every time that a girl rejected him because of the sick things that he did, Jackson would come home and bitch about it for a while before trudging off into the woods in search of something to kill, with Jonathan following like a loyal puppy dog. It was almost like a ritual designed to give Jackson an outlet for his frustrations, but it didn't seem to help. Jackson only grew more and more frustrated, while Jonathan could do nothing but sit back and watch._

_Subconsciously, Jonathan knew that it was only a matter of time before Jackson's temper got the better of him. Killing animals out in the woods was doing nothing to quell his anger over his failures, try as he might to control it. Jonathan knew that if Jackson got frustrated enough, he either would find new, more potent ways to let it out, or his temper would essentially explode._

_Still, knowing that, even Jonathan hadn't expected what happened next._

_It had all started one night in August, when the air was humid and the cicadas were humming loudly. Jonathan was in his room, reading the newest Stephen King novel, like the nerd that he was. Jackson had been out all day, and Jonathan wondered vaguely if he'd be home before it got dark._

_It was about seven-thirty when Jackson burst through the door, stumbling a little as he walked. As soon as he walked in, he started singing drunkenly about dead prostitutes, making up the words as he went._

"One hooker corpse

Is lying in my car

Another hooker corpse

Is bleeding at a bar

Third hooker corpse

Lyin' in an alleyway

All bones and skin and blood

And rotting and decay"

_Jackson finished his cheerful little ditty by laughing gaily. As he made his way towards their room, he called out loudly, "Scarecrow? Hey, Scarecrow!"_

_Jackson stumbled into their bedroom, and Jonathan watched as he unceremoniously fell onto his mattress. In one of Jackson's hands was a full bottle of vodka, and in the other was a six-pack of beer. Jonathan vaguely wondered what Jackson had gotten drunk off of if all the bottles he had with him were full._

_Jackson looked up and, seeing Jonathan watch him, called out, "Hey there, Scarecrow!"_

Jonathan made his way over towards Jackson and plopped down on the end of his mattress. "Where you been all day?"

_Jackson, uncorking the vodka, explained, "Dad gave me ten bucks this morning, so I took a bus into town and walked around doing all sorts of shit."_

Jonathan gave him an unbelieving look. "You can't buy all this shit with just ten bucks."

_Jackson laughed. "Who says I bought it?"_

Jonathan grabbed one of the beers out of the six pack and opened it before asking, "Why the hell did Dad give you ten bucks?"

Jackson shrugged. "Fatherly guilt?" He paused for a second, thinking. "What day is today?"

"August 13th, why?"

Jackson thought about this for a second. "I think it's my birthday." Mulling over this, he remarked. "So this makes me, what, sixteen now?" He shrugged again before drinking straight from the vodka bottle. When he'd drunk a good amount, he loudly proclaimed, "Happy fucking birthday to me, cocksuckers!"

_Jonathan nodded before swigging down half the bottle of beer in one fell swoop. Jackson handed him the vodka bottle, so Jonathan gulped some of that down as well, the alcohol burning the back of his throat._

_They continued drinking for hours more, but everything seemed to be a blur. When Jonathan looked back on it later, none of it seemed coherent. Bits and pieces remained…the heavy scent of alcohol, Jackson's inane laughter, the taste of beer in his mouth…but none of it seemed to join together into a coherent memory. For years afterwards, Jonathan would pore desperately over what little he could remember, and he would always end up wondering what a fly on the wall would have seen in the hours that ensued._

----------

_When Jonathan woke up the next morning, he was hung over and disoriented. Sitting up slowly, he realized with a start that the world was a blurry mess of images. Even worse, it was a blurry mess that smelled like stale beer. Once he was completely upright, he fumbled around to the left of the mattress, where his night table should be and where he would find his glasses. Strangely enough, instead of feeling his night table, he felt a wall instead._

_Jonathan frowned groggily. What the fuck?_

_Still trying to clear his head from its hung over haze, Jonathan felt the carpet with his foot to see if he could find his glasses. After a few seconds, his toes connected with something made of glass and wire. Reaching down, Jonathan put them on his eyes, and the world suddenly seemed a thousand times clearer._

_Looking around, Jonathan noticed immediately that he was on the wrong side of the room. Sitting where he was, he could look straight across the small room and see his own bed. Still disoriented, it took a while for Jonathan to put two and two together. If that was his bed over there, then he obviously wasn't sitting on his own bed. And if he wasn't sitting on his bed, then he must be sitting on…Jackson's._

_Jonathan groaned and rolled his eyes. Shit, they had gotten wasted. Especially if he hadn't been able to move all of three feet away to pass out on his own mattress._

_Jonathan paused for a minute to hear a strange sound coming from the bathroom. After listening for about a minute, Jonathan recognized it as retching. Sounded like Jackson was pretty hung over, too._

_Jonathan tried to stand up, but pain shot through him as soon as he did. Sitting back down, Jonathan wondered what the hell that was about._

_As he sat back down, Jonathan felt like he sat in something sticky._

_Moving over a bit on the mattress, Jonathan checked to see what it was. Some spilled beer, maybe? Looking down at the sticky substance, Jonathan realized that beer didn't usually have such a white color._

_Something inside Jonathan clicked, and his stomach sank very, very quickly._

_Jonathan listened for a few more seconds to Jackson vomiting in the next room, his head hurting a thousand times more than it had been before. Trying not to think about what he was pretty sure he just saw and the fact that Jackson kept on throwing up in the bathroom, Jonathan stood up, trying his best to ignore the pain shooting through his legs and back._

_Standing up, Jonathan clutched his head before moving over to his night table. Pulling open a drawer, he felt around until he found some Advil before tossing a couple of pills in his mouth and swallowing. Hoping as best as he could that the painkillers would help his throbbing head, Jonathan sat down on his own mattress, staring across the room with something akin to horror._

_Jonathan tried his best to think things out. What in the hell had happened last night? They'd been drinking….they'd been drinking a lot. And…and Jackson was being an ass, and…and Jonathan had tried to push him or something. But he hadn't been able to, because Jackson had grabbed his wrists, and…_

_Oh shit, no._

_Jonathan looked down at his knees, trying his best not to think of what might have happened. But when he looked down, he noticed that his jeans were on backwards. Even odder, they felt really loose, as though they weren't buttoned or zippered or…_

_That was the point where Jonathan threw up all over his mattress._

----------

_Jackson and Jonathan managed to avoid each other like the plague in the days that followed. It almost became a game to see how they would cover up the previous night's events while still managing to avoid each other. Jonathan had been the one to put their sheets in the wash and then dry them. When he put their newly cleaned sheets back on their mattress, he realized that Jackson must have come in and cleaned, since the empty bottles were gone and the room smelled of air freshener instead of beer. And after Jonathan scrubbed out any beer stains that were left on the carpet, he heard the washing machine being run and realized that Jackson was cleaning their clothes from the night before. By the time they were finished, there was no evidence left of what had happened that night._

_For the next several days, they didn't speak to each other, not even to say "Hello" or "Goodbye". They wouldn't even stay in the same room as each other. The only times they did stay in the same room was when they went to sleep at night in their room. But that brought up memories that neither of them wanted to talk about._

_After a while, they did begin to speak to each other, if only to state the casual "Hello" or "Hand me a pen, willya?" Eventually, they went back to speaking to each other in full sentences, until it got to the point where they behaved as though nothing had ever happened._

_But, in reality, things weren't nearly what they were before. Every night when Jonathan lay in bed, he listened to his brother's light breathing as he slept. As he did so, he imagined his brther's glassy eyes and rancid breath. He imagined Jackson grabbing his wrists and pushing him down onto the mattress, peering down at him before he…_

_That was the point where Jonathan would squeeze his eyes shut and tell himself to stop. But that didn't stop him from having nightmares about it._

_Whenever he thought too hard about what had happened, Jonathan would always write it off, rationalizing it as a mistake made because of the alcohol flowing through them. These things happened when people drank too much. Booze could do that to anyone. Besides, he couldn't be positive about what had happened that night._

_But something in the back of Jonathan's mind nagged at him, reminding him that Jackson wouldn't have gone to such lengths to avoid him if something hadn't happened. And even if Jonathan had been too drunk to remember what had happened, Jackson could hold his liquor well enough to remember in the morning._

_And there was another part of Jonathan's mind, one even deeper and darker than the last, which wondered if it might happen again. It wondered, if they got drunk enough, would the end result be the same as last time. And it wondered what Jonathan would do if the situation ever arose. Even worse, Jonathan couldn't really think of answer._

_Jackson, for his part, never brought it up. For probably the same reasons as Jonathan, he avoided the topic as best he could. Proving his devotion to evading it, he even stopped drinking alcohol for an entire month after the incident. This seemed to reassure Jonathan, making him feel secure in the knowledge that it would never happen again. _

_All of that seemed to come to a halt, however, one night about three weeks later._

_Jonathan was returning home from school late, having to stay for detention after setting fire to one of the history teachers' replicas of the city of London. Whether anybody actually got the joke was a moot point by now._

_Pushing open the door to the house, Jonathan peered around before calling out, "Hello?" Hearing some wild giggling coming from the other part of the house, Jonathan put down his books and headed over to his room._

_Sure enough, there was Jackson, laughing like a drunken idiot on the floor. Two vodka bottles lay on the ground, half-spilled and half-drank._

_Jonathan walked in, giving Jackson an odd look. "What the hell happened to you?"_

Jackson laughed hysterically, as though he'd heard some insanely funny joke. Jonathan stood over him, wondering why in the hell he was so smashed.

"_Jackson? Jackson, what the hell did you do?"_

Jackson hiccupped before answering. "Managed to steal this shit from the grocery store. They didn't even see me coming." More laughing.

_Jonathan shook his head. "Jackson, you're really fucking wasted, you know that?"_

Jackson continued his cackling. After a few seconds, he calmed down a bit before kicking one of the open vodka bottles in Jonathan's direction. "Here."

Jonathan looked at the open bottle and then at his brother. "No thanks. I think you're smashed enough for both of us."

Jackson resumed his laughter. "What, you scared we're going to fuck again?"

Hearing that, Jonathan tensed up. "What did you say?"

Jackson giggled. "You're scared. You remember what happened last time."

Jonathan, remembering all too well the result of their last encounter with vodka, picked up the nearly empty bottle and started to walk away, saying, "I think you've had a bit too much to drink, Jackso-…"  


_Jonathan would have finished if Jackson hadn't grabbed his wrist and yanked him as hard as he could towards him. Surprised, Jonathan didn't think fast enough to fight back. Before he even realized what was happening, Jonathan had landed on his ass, Jackson directly next to him._

_Jonathan opened his mouth to ask what the hell Jackson thought he was doing, but before he could say anything, Jackson's mouth was on top of his own. With his heart pounding and the taste of Jackson's inebriated breath filling his mouth, Jonathan pulled away and stared at his brother._

_Jackson merely grinned. "Scared yet?"_

_Jonathan said nothing, simply looking at his brother, not really knowing what to say or do. Jackson, not one to go unanswered, replied with, "Well?"_

Jonathan looked at his brother, his eyes glassy and his words slurred from way too much alcohol. Jonathan tried desperately to say something, to force his mouth to say the word "no". But it didn't. As much as it confused him and confounded him later, Jonathan didn't say no to his older brother.

_Jackson, taking this as permission, descended on him like a vulture to a carcass._

----------

It was about an hour later that Jackson woke up screaming. Jonathan had fallen into a light sleep in his chair, but Jackson's panicked wails awoke him with a start. Looking over to his terrified brother, Jonathan saw that he was flailing wildly, trying his best to fight off an invisible enemy.

Rising quickly, Jonathan went over to his brother, who's helpless screeching was becoming louder and more raw as the seconds passed. Jonathan was thrown off by this sudden outburst, not having expected such a violent reaction to the toxin, especially considering that he'd only given him a light dose.

Jonathan felt slightly panicked. This wasn't normal. None of the other patients had ever had a delayed reaction to the gas. Yet here was Jackson, having a violent fit of terror after three hours of exposure.

As much as he'd enjoyed Jackson's initial squirming, it seemed as though Jonathan would need to give him the antidote sooner than expected.

Reaching into his briefcase, Jonathan pulled out a hypodermic syringe and needle. After taking them out of their airtight wrapper, Jonathan retrieved a small bottle of amber-colored liquid. While Jackson continued his violent writhing, Jonathan filled the syringe with a measured amount of the liquid. After he had done that, he put the syringe down and stood over Jackson's delusional form.

"Jackson," Jonathan stated calmly, an imperious tone in his voice. Jackson didn't respond, but he did seem to stop thrashing somewhat when he heard Jonathan's voice.

"Jackson." Jonathan said it again, slightly softer this time as he waited to see what kind of reaction he would get from his older brother.

Jackson was quiet for a few seconds before his darting eyes finally settled on the form of his younger brother. Even though his teeth were chattering, he almost seemed to smile slightly.

"J-j…Jonathan?"

Jonathan knelt next to the couch, grabbing the hypodermic needle and sticking it into the syringe. "Jackson, I need you to stay still. I'm going to put this needle into your arm. If you let me do that, these…visions will go away."

Weakly, Jackson nodded. He seemed to try his best to stay still, but he still shook somewhat.

Watching him, Jonathan tried his best to stay detached, mentally commanding himself to do each of the steps in the process of giving him the antidote. Get the rubber strap from the breiefcase. Tie the strap around his arm. Check for a vein. Find vein. Hold his arm still. Insert needle. Inject antidote. Remove needle. Untie strap.

When he had finished doing all this, Jonathan sat back and watched his brother for a minute. He observed how Jackson's shaking slowly subsided, and how Jackson slowly drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Jonathan hated the feeling of relief that washed over him when Jackson stopped shaking. He hated himself for not wanting Jackson to remain in the realm of nightmares, for having lost the joy he'd felt watching his brother squirm.

Dammit, he was supposed to be the master of fear. This wasn't how things worked.

After making sure that Jackson was, in fact, asleep, Jonathan checked his brother's forehead. It was cool. Whatever fever he'd had must have broken.

Jonathan sat back in his chair, the combination of relief and anger coming back again. He didn't like feeling guilty for tormenting a patient. He didn't want to be happy that Jackson was alright. The plan had been to let him endure the mental torture as long as his mind could withstand it. Hell, he'd only given him a light dose; if he'd wanted, Jonathan could have let Jackson suffer for another twenty hours or so.

But no. After only a little more than three hours, Jonathan had broken down and given Jackson the antidote. Some master of fear he was turning out to be.

And yet, Jonathan couldn't help but feel somewhat pleased that Jackson was no longer running a fever or having violent fits. He'd wanted so desperately to watch him writhe in agony when he first saw him in the apartment. But when he actually did it, he backed down after only three hours. Jonathan had never had this problem with any of the other patients.

But he supposed that Jackson was different than all the other patients.

When he'd first seen Jackson sitting there, looking smug on his couch, Jonathan had been angry. Pissed, even. The man had disappeared for over a decade, in all likelihood getting himself involved in all kinds of insane shit. Jonathan never even knew where he was or what he was doing. During those first few years, Jonathan had spent many a night wondering where his brother had disappeared, and whether or not he was even alive.

After a few years, so many people had told Jonathan so many times that Jackson was dead that Jonathan had actually begun to believe it. As much as he would remind himself that Jackson had made it out alive that night, it eventually became easier to just accept what everyone else kept telling him: that Jackson was dead, and he was never coming back.

But then he'd found the newspaper photo.

The second he saw it, there was no doubt in Jonathan's mind that it was his brother's picture. Even after so long, the cocky grin and the icy eyes of the mug shot were instantly familiar. As soon as Jonathan had seen it, it was as though all doubts about Jackson had been swept away.

Jonathan adjusted his glasses, watching Jackson as his chest rose and fell with every breath he took. Jackson's face was calm, relaxed…in a way, it almost made him look harmless and innocent.

Imagine that. "Jackson Rippner" looking innocent.

In the throes of his nightmares, Jackson had managed to toss off the blanket that Jonathan had given him earlier. Carelessly, Jonathan picked it up and tossed it back on top of him.

When Jonathan thought about it, there was no one reasons that he felt rage well up inside him when'd seen Jackson. Instead, there seemed to be dozens of them, all floating around and overlapping each other.

Perhaps he'd been angry because of Jackson's nonchalance, the way his return had seemed like a huge joke to him. Maybe it was his insistence on treating him like a fourteen year-old kid again. Maybe it was the childish teasing, the juvenile name-calling.

No, none of that was it. Jackson had always done those things since their earliest days of childhood. They had never bothered Jonathan before, and these childish actions weren't what were making him angry now.

Instead, it was a long harbored feeling of abandonment and betrayal. Jackson had screwed up everything in one short night, and he did it all for only a thousand dollars. Jonathan had shot their mother -their _mother_- just to cover up for him. And he'd just left, off to do who-knew-what, while Jonathan was left to watch their house burst into flames in front of his very eyes.

Maybe the reason he was so angry was because he couldn't get over the fact that he'd _slept_ with that son of a bitch.

Jonathan winced. Even now, it was still difficult to think about. It wasn't because of the whole incest factor; he'd gotten used to that years ago. It was the emotions, or the lack thereof, that Jonathan associated with their nighttime trysts.

Their nocturnal excursions had never been for any of the reasons that most people slept together. It had never been about love, or desire, or even some bizarre act of rebellion. And the booze had nothing to do with it. Every night that Jackson pulled out a twelve-pack of Heineken, they both knew how the night would end. After a while, they didn't even need the booze as an excuse. Hell, after the first time, the booze was only a formality.

Jonathan knew that Jackson had always been frustrated by the fact that girls were repulsed by him. He knew all too well from all the afternoons he'd spent listening to Jackson ramble for ages before being invited to go kill something in the woods. And the more frequently it happened, the more frustrated Jackson had gotten, which had led to an increasing number of violent trips into the woods.

Jonathan wasn't sure if Jackson had planned the outcome of that first night, or if it had just been an accident. Either way, Jackson seemed to have stumbled onto something of an outlet for all his pent-up frustrations. His logic would have been that, if he couldn't have those girls that were so repulsed by his presence, at least he'd have _someone_ willing to fuck him. Even if that person was his own brother.

At the time, Jonathan hadn't known why Jackson kept coming back night after night. Even worse, Jonathan wasn't sure why he let Jackson do it. At the time, he wrote it off as nothing, preferring not to think about his deeper motivations for sleeping with his brother. But now that he had become a shrink (and couldn't help but psychoanalyze everyone he met), he had pored over everything that had ever happened between them at least a thousand times, looking for reasons.

Even though neither of them had really known it at the time, Jonathan had hero-worshipped Jackson throughout their childhood. Even when they had been very little, Jonathan had looked up to his older brother as an ideal to emulate. Everything Jackson did, Jonathan tried to copy. He made it his goal in life to be everything that Jackson was, if not more so.

That being said, by the time that Jackson had arrived home with vodka in hand, Jonathan had devoted so much time towards becoming Jackson that the line where Jackson ended and Jonathan began was practically nonexistent. Jonathan, even though he'd never say so out loud, was willing to do anything for him. Even sleep with him. Even kill their mother.

There was something else to it, something that Jonathan didn't really notice until after Jackson had left. Partly because of their terrifying reputations and partly because of the fact that their father was always working and their mother was always screwing people around, Jonathan and Jackson had grown up isolated. As a result, they never really were exposed to any signs of affection, or even having anybody touch them. Things that most people take for granted – a hug hello, a kiss on the cheek, a frigging handshake when you meet someone new – were total unknowns to them. So when they'd slept together, it had been something of a shock to realize that contact with another person could actually be pleasurable.

Even if it was your brother you were screwing.

Still, even thirteen years later, Jonathan couldn't help but feel a myriad mix of emotions whenever he thought about what they'd done so many times. Looking down at Jackson's sleeping form, Jonathan wondered how Jackson felt about their trysts.

With these thoughts floating through his head, Jonathan slowly drifted off to sleep.

----------

_Jonathan and Jackson's nighttime trysts continued long after that second time, up until the night that they killed their parents. For a while, they would get drunk beforehand, pretending to themselves that their encounters weren't planned. It was their way of lying to themselves about what they did behind closed doors._

_Eventually, they stopped using alcohol when they realized that they weren't kidding anybody. Not that anybody else knew, but still. But they absolutely refused to admit out loud what they were doing, even to themselves. They never discussed the acts they did between the sheets, not even during the act. To do so would break some sort of unspoken, mutual agreement to deny until the death that they had ever slept with each other._

_Whenever they had sex, it was carnal, animalistic, yet completely unerotic. There was no hint of tenderness or eroticism. The prevailing attitude between the two brothers was that sex was something that they should just get over with as quickly as possible. When Jonathan thought back on these encounters in later years he would remember dozens of nights being slammed into a mattress before Jackson had his way. No kissing, no foreplay…it was almost as though they were trying to have sex while touching each other as little as physically possible._

_Their routine was always the same. After their (generally mild) climaxes, they would normally just lay there for several awkward minutes. After a while, Jonathan would get up and take a cold shower while Jackson fell asleep. Jonathan would then dry off, get changed, and then go to sleep in his own bed. The next morning, Jackson would take a shower before washing his sheets. Then they'd go about their day, not acknowledging what they'd done or what they'd be doing again in a few more nights._

_It certainly added a bizarre layer to their relationship, to say the least. Despite how much they refused to admit to the things they did with each other in bed, there didn't seem to be any willingness to end it. Jackson was reluctant to end their mattress escapades, and Jonathan was reluctant to say no to Jackson._

_So their nighttime fumblings continued, with both brothers keeping it as yet another skeleton to add to their respective closets._

_Still, at times there were signs that their armor could easily crack. Jonathan distinctly remembered one afternoon when a local twelve year-old boy had tried to pick a fight with Jackson. The kid had called him every obscenity in existence, but Jackson had remained unfazed. But he did manage to strike a nerve when he loudly proclaimed, "You and you loser brother don't even have any friends! All you do is walk around the woods together, like you're some friggin' married couple!"_

_Now, any sane, rational person will tell you not to take an insult like that too seriously, that it's just the casual insult of a little shit that thinks it's cool to taunt people who are bigger and older. But Jackson was most definitely not rational, and whether or not he was sane was up for debate. He beat the little sonofabitch within an inch of his life, not holding back as the kid wailed for someone to help him. Jonathan was sure that Jackson would pull out a switchblade and kill the kid, bur a group of parents came running before he had the chance. Jackson was forced to leave the kid lying there on the ground to avoid dealing with soccer mom wrath._

_That night, Jonathan remembered being fucked particularly roughly. Clinging on to the mattress as though it were a lifeline as Jackson thrust in and out of him in a particularly vicious manner. He knew that Jackson was still angry about what had happened. Somehow, Jackson must have equated screwing with stabbing the kid repeatedly. Either way, it was starting to hurt like hell._

_Lying on his own mattress later that night, feeling somewhat sore, Jonathan felt his eyelids growing heavier. His mind began drifting away as though floating off to sea, and he could feel himself starting dream as the quiet room surrounding him vanished into thin air._

_He dreamed that he was running through the woods near his house, the trees flying by him and the twigs beneath him snapping as he darted along. After a while, he emerged onto a highway, with rough asphalt and metal guardrails guiding it. But Jonathan kept running, not stopping to admire the scenery._

_Jonathan stopped at the end of the road, where a tall tree stood. Its branches were low and its trunk short, and it leaves were alternately a bright green or a sickly brown. Dangling from its branches like a dead body was a scarecrow. Hanging in the air by a rope around its neck, it had rubbery fingers and short, squat limbs. Straw poked out of the worn clothes that covered its body. The face was made of burlap, a crude smile stitched onto it with thread._

_Staring at it for a few seconds, Jonathan studied it with interest. Reaching out, he pulled off the mask, wanting to see the face that lay underneath. As soon as he did, a spark flew, and the scarecrow burst into flames._

_Jonathan watched in horror as the fire danced its way across the scarecrow's body, smoke rising and swirling in the air. Jonathan stared in fascination as he saw a familiar face peer back at him through the flames, with cold blue eyes that seemed like ice caught in a cyclone of fire._

_Jonathan awoke from the dream in a cold sweat, and almost felt surprised to wake up in his own room in his own bed. Everything was the same as usual, and Jackson's slow breathing was the only sound to permeate the silence._

_Warily, Jonathan lay back on his mattress, trying to fumble for a meaning to the images he had seen. He didn't discover much, because after only a few seconds, his eyelids drooped and he drifted back to sleep._

----------

At about seven the next morning, Jonathan woke up out of habit. He had gotten so used to waking up at that time every morning that he didn't even need an alarm. He hadn't, however, gotten used to the sight of his older brother lying before him on his couch.

Jonathan blanched for a moment as all of the events of the previous night rushed back to him. Jackson's arrival, the toxin, his fever…

Satisfied in managing to remember what had happened, Jonathan got up from his chair. Starting off his morning routine, he made his way over to the kitchen area to brew some coffee.

As he plugged the appliance in, Jonathan glanced over at his still-unconscious brother. Jackson lay there, breathing in slowly, peacefully, as though he had never been flailing his way through hallucinated horrors.

Jonathan bit his lip, frowning slightly. When Jackson woke up, he was probably going to have quiet a few questions about what he'd seen that night. Jonathan wouldn't…or, rather, couldn't…tell Jackson about the toxin. But it was going to be difficult to make up an excuse for all of Jackson's hellish nightmares.

Picking up the unopened beer that Jackson had put on top of the trash the previous night, Jonathan unscrewed the cap of the long-expired booze. He walked over to Jackson's sleeping figure and poured the beer's contents all over his face, mouth, and chest. If Jackson asked any questions when he woke up, Jonathan could attribute his night terrors to a bad drinking spree. It wasn't the best explanation in the world, but it would do.

Having settled that, Jonathan started to get ready for yet another day of mob deals, terrorizing the insane, and preparing for Gotham's apocalypse.

He had finished getting showered and dressed, and was drinking his coffee when Jonathan heard Jackson stirring on the couch. Putting down his coffee mug, Jonathan walked over to the couch in time to see Jackson pry his eyes open before looking around in confusion.

"Whe…what…?"

Jonathan watched as the memories rushed back to Jackson. The elder Crane blinked and relaxed slightly, still seeming a bit sickly. Looking somewhat pale, Jackson mumbled weakly, "What the hell…?"

Jonathan using the same tone of voice as he used with unruly patients, stated calmly, "You had quite a lot to drink last night, Jackson. You must be feeling quite hung-over."

Jackson, still seeming weak and dazed, murmured quietly, "There was blood…and screaming…and corpses."

"You must have had a nightmare."

Jackson limply shook his head, still lying almost lifelessly on the couch. "It was too real…too real to be a dream…"

Jonathan arched an eyebrow as though Jackson were being utterly ridiculous. "Well, it obviously must have been. Do you see any blood or corpses lying around?"

Jackson didn't answer, choosing only to mumble, "It wasn't a dream…"

Jonathan didn't respond. Instead, he went back to the kitchen and poured another mug of coffee, then walked back to Jackson and left it on the floor near the couch. Speaking again in a clinical tone, Jonathan stated, "Drink this if you're feeling up to it. Hopefully, it'll help you sober up."

Jonathan gathered his coat and his briefcase from where they sat near the front door. Turning back to face Jackson's direction, Jonathan added, "Get some rest. I'll be back tonight."

With that, he exited the apartment, shutting the door carefully behind him.


	4. In Loco Parentis

Shit…

Wow…

THIRTY-SIX PAGES…

Oy.

Right off the bat, I'd like to apologize to all those people whom I told that I would be done by the end of last week. Obviously, that's not how things panned out. But, if it's any consolation, this chapter is really friggin' long.

I'd really like to thank two people who've read this story: first, wild wolf free 17, who had so far sent me the spelling and grammar mistakes for each of my chapters that I keep on missing, as well as pointing out whenever I switch Jonathan and Jackson's names. Thanks for the help!

I'd also like to thank hortensio from GAFF, who's been a big supporter, and has helped me shoot down a troll as well as pimp my story to other members. Thanks!

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Disclaimer: Dun own 'em.

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The One Warning: I DON'T GIVE WARNINGS. (Though I'm sure that you'll all believe me after that last chapter…)

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Is It 'In Loco Parentis' Or Are the Parents Just Loco?_

_Jonathan and Jackson had the kind of father that wants desperately to be the best parent ever, yet, because of circumstances beyond his control, can never even come close to achieving that goal._

_The Crane family was far from well-off, and Frank Crane spent most of his time on the job as a construction worker in order to support his family. He would spend days, sometimes even weeks on end at various sites away from home. Even when he was home, he would leave early in the morning and come home late at night. Whenever he was home, he was too tired to do anything but plop into bed and get some sleep._

_He constantly felt guilty for being unable to spend much time with his family. It was obvious to anyone who talked to him that he really did love his wife and his sons. Yet, at the same time, he seemed unwilling to realize that he had no relationship at all with any of them. The three of them got so used to his absence that they never even noticed him when he was there._

_There were times, however, that he would try his best to make up for his constant absences. On the rare night that he wasn't at work or exhausted, he might take his wife out to a restaurant that she hated, give her a gift she's never use, or take her to a movie she'd already seen with another man. She would always smile awkwardly at his attempts at romance, and Jonathan and Jackson would watch uncomfortably as their car rolled out of the driveway, knowing that their night would end in clumsy lovemaking at a local motel before their father returned to his work while their mother returned to one of her more attentive lovers._

_Their father's attempts to connect with his sons were just as inept, if not more so. Jonathan remembered being dragged to the zoo when he was eight, starting with a hot, hour-long car ride with Jackson and their father. After a boring forty-five minutes of wandering, the two boys had been led to the monkey house in the hopes of providing at least minimal entertainment. Their father had been rather shocked when Jonathan, seeing that most of the monkeys hid from the view of visitors, screeched loudly, "Get your fucking asses out of the shade, you stupid dipshit animals!"_

_Their filthy language wasn't the only thing their father didn't know about. For all those years that Jackson and Jonathan engaged in their cruel antics in the woods, their father never seemed to hear a word about it from the neighbors, who'd seen the brothers' handiwork all too often as they grew up. Jonathan never could figure out why his father always seemed to think that he and Jackson were as pure as the driven snow. Perhaps their neighbors never told him what they saw his sons doing when he was gone. It made sense; to do so would potentially anger the man. After all, Frank Crane was six feet tall and burly; even though the man was generally even-tempered, most people tried to not to push their luck around him._

_Of course, there was another option: that Frank Crane knew about the rumors and simply preferred to deny that they were true. This, too, made sense to Jonathan. Up until the night that he'd seen Jackson standing over Anna's dead body, he had always done his best to pretend that the Cranes were the perfect, happy, all-American family. He never seemed to realize that there was little to no affection between family members, or that his wife was sleeping around, or that his sons were doing cruel, torturous things to animals and each other. As long as he could delude himself into thinking that everything was alright, that seemed to be good enough for him._

_Growing up, Jonathan and Jackson hadn't really cared much for their father. They tended to view him as a pathetic nuisance, preferring to be left alone rather than have him interfere in their affairs. Jackson especially seemed to loathe him. "The man is an idiot," Jonathan remembered hearing him say once. "He can pretend all he wants that he's fucking Father of the Year, but he'll never be any more than some dumbass on the street."_

_Looking back years later, Jonathan realized that he couldn't really hate his father with the same venom that Jackson did. In the end, he'd just been trying to keep his family afloat, and was doing it the only way he could. But Jonathan also recognized that, even though he couldn't hate him, he couldn't really feel any warmth or affection for the man, either. He may have been doing his best to support his family, but he had never been a father figure to either of his sons. Jonathan didn't look back at his father the way others would look back at theirs. He didn't feel love and affection, or even hatred and malice. He didn't feel anything when he thought of his father. And that was the sad part: in the end, his father meant absolutely nothing._

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Even though it was the middle of the morning, the room in which Jonathan Crane sat was as dark as it would be in the middle of the night. No windows were placed on the walls of the warehouse office, and the only light bulb in the room was dim and bare. It hung directly over where Jonathan sat, like Damocles' sword, making the whole seem more like an interrogation.

Standing only a few feet away was Henri Ducard, pacing the floor as he thought and spoke. Jonathan had never really understood why Ducard would insist that Jonathan sit during their meetings while he remained standing. It was probably a power issue, but all it did was make Jonathan feel like a disobedient pupil whom the teacher would reprimand for drowning the class gerbil.

Ducard was flipping through the contents of a large manila folder that Jonathan had given him, a hungry curiosity evident in his eyes as he pored over it.

"And this file…it has everyone?" Ducard inquired, taking only a second to glance towards Jonathan before returning to the pages in his hands.

"Yes. Every single patient that I've exposed to the toxin is listed in there."

"And you're sure that your toxin worked on all of them?"

"Absolutely. The toxin has been tested on patients of every height, weight, age group, gender, ethnicity, and all of them have succumbed."

"Were there any complications?"

"Different patients seemed to have varying tolerances towards the toxin. Those with weak respiratory systems, such as smokers and very young children, seemed to be the most susceptible. Some patients developed fevers, and a rare few developed violent tendencies."

With a small smile, Ducard inquired, "They attacked you?"

"Yes. They were restrained quickly, but they do their best to escape their confines."

Ducard pondered this for a few seconds, and Jonathan noticed with interest the delight with which he took this news.

Returning to his solemn expression, Ducard continued his questioning. "How have your dealings with Falcone gone?"

Jonathan sighed. "The shipments are being delivered as promised, but Falcone has become more demanding in terms of retribution."

"He's asking for more money?"

"No, favors."

Ducard gave Jonathan a curious expression. "Favors? What sort of favors?"

"He's asked me to testify at the trials of some of his cohorts and claim that they're insane so that they'll be transferred to Arkham."

"Which cohorts?"

"He had me testify at the appeal for Ms. Kyle, the woman who shot Joe Chill several years ago. Then there was Tom Collins, who was responsible for that massacre in the Narrows six months ago. Now he's asking me to testify for a Mr. Zsasz."

Ducard nodded, frowning a little as he turned this over in his mind. After a few seconds, he spoke, saying, "Falcone's aid is essential for this plan to come to fruition. Testify for this man's trial, but do not allow him to bully you into any more. If he tries, tell him that Ras Al Ghul will be arriving soon, and that he will not tolerate any lack of cooperation."

Surprised, Jonathan's ears perked up. "Ras Al Ghul is coming to Gotham?"

Solemnly, Ducard nodded. "Before the last shipment comes in, he will have arrived here with the rest of his men so that the final stage of the operation will run smoothly."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "The _rest_ of his men?"

Ducard looked at Jonathan with chilly eyes before murmuring, "Come, I have something to show you."

Frowning as Ducard walked to a door in the back of the room, Jonathan followed cautiously, not sure what to expect from the mystical guru. Watching Ducard unlock the heavily bolted door, Jonathan braced himself, as though preparing for an attack.

Ducard swung the door open slowly, and as Jonathan peered inside, he could see only darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Jonathan could see dozens upon dozens of eyes staring back at him coldly.

"Dr. Crane, these are the first group of men that Ras Al Ghul has sent. He wanted to ensure that the last part of the plan went smoothly, so he sent them here to serve under your command."

Jonathan stepped into the room cautiously, glancing around at the uniformed men lounging around casually, their intense gazes focused solely on him.

"So these men…they're…"

"They are all trained in the ways of fighting, and are capable warriors. Should you ever need them, they are at your beck and call. They have been instructed to regard you as a superior."

Jonathan nodded absentmindedly, still looking at the men around him. Even the smallest among them was easily twice his size. There was an imperious strength in each of them, a hardened power that their eyes, their faces, even their postures reflected. Yet they seemed to look at Jonathan respectfully, a calm kind of subservience in their gazes.

Nodding, Jonathan responded breathlessly, "Alright, then…"

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_Although one could argue that Mr. Crane was a good parent in spite of his shortcomings, it would be much harder to make a similar argument for his wife. Although one could say that she was never abusive to her children, that was probably the only good argument you could make. After all, it's rather hard to say that someone's a good parent when they're never actually around their children._

_Selena Crane had always had big dreams, even as a little girl. Her parents had taken her and her siblings to Broadway shows ever since she was a little girl, and she knew that she wanted to be an actress. From the age of four, she was confident that she would be a celebrity and star in all of the biggest Hollywood movies. She had begged her parents to let her take acting classes from when she was five years old, and she'd gotten them. When she'd graduated from high school, she immediately enrolled in the drama program in a local university._

_Her parents were well-off, and had loved to spoil Selena and her siblings. Every day of her life, she'd been told that she was beautiful, talented, and smart, and that she would achieve great things. She'd believed it from the bottom of her heart, and she had enough confidence to seize every opportunity._

_That was, until she met Frank._

_He was the sweet-natured man working at the local gas station to pay the rent for the shoddy apartment he shared with two other men. He was twenty, she was eighteen, and she was perfectly willing to flirt with him if he'd give her a discount for oil changes. In Selena's mind, it was light and harmless, not to mention helpful to her bank account._

_Of course, she didn't think so when Frank, who had taken each of her flirtations to heart, awkwardly asked her out to see a drive-in movie. She'd stalled, saying that she'd think about it, then drove away with the intention of never, ever talking to Frank again._

_That night, she got into a huge fight with her parents and stormed out of the house, planning on doing something ludicrous to piss off her parents. Ultimately, she decided that spending the night at a gas station attendant's apartment would be sufficient. So she drove as fast as she could up to the local gas station, marched right up to Frank, and told him that yes, she'd be delighted to go out with him._

_The next morning, when she'd strolled into the house, describing in detail the events of the past night, her parents were horrified and enraged. This only amused Selena, and she couldn't help but laugh at the hysterical faces her parents made as they shrieked at her about modesty and decency._

_She hadn't laughed when she missed her period, though._

_Selena didn't tell anyone right away, hoping that she could somehow keep it a secret and quietly get rid of the baby once it was born. But she was a skinny girl, and it was only a matter of time before she began to show. It didn't help that Frank kept asking her out, and that she kept accepting for the simple reason that she still wanted to anger her parents. When both Frank and her parents noticed her bulging stomach, they were all able to put two and two together and realize what was going on._

_When he found out, Frank insisted on making an honest woman out of her, and her parents agreed that marriage was the best option at this point. Not having much of a choice, she eloped with Frank about four months into her pregnancy. Unable to go to college anymore, she was forced to stay home while Frank worked two jobs to make enough money to support the three of them when the baby was born. As her stomach slowly grew larger, Selena could see her dreams of fame slowly vanish like sand inside a sieve, and she was helpless to do anything about it._

_When she gave birth to a baby boy, Selena decided to name him Jackson. It wasn't because she had a fondness for the name, or even that she particularly liked it; she simply remembered hearing of some distant relative who had been named Jackson, and figured it would do._

_After giving birth to Jonathan a little less than two years later, the Cranes moved from New York to a small house in Tennessee, where Frank had gotten work with a construction company. It wasn't a particularly nice house, and it was located in the middle of dense forest, away from the rest of town. But it was affordable, and that was all that mattered at that point._

_She learned to resent Frank for everything: her unplanned pregnancy, her marriage at a young age, their poverty, their crappy house, everything. It didn't seem to sink in that there was blame on her shoulders as well, that she shouldn't have slept with someone for the stupid reasons that she did. All she saw was the fame and fortune she could have had, the dreams that she would never realize because she was stuck at home with two demonic toddlers._

_As he grew up, Jackson would hear this story over and over again. His mother's bitterness didn't decrease with time, and since she had no friends to confide in during those early years in Tennessee, she learned to rant to her two young sons. Jackson was barely able to understand what she was even talking about, but her words impressed themselves into his memory so that he would know them by heart by the time he learned to understand them._

_The rantings stopped, however, when Jackson was entering first grade. He didn't really know why, but he did know that his mother seemed especially pleased that Jonathan would be entering preschool. She also gave both of her children keys to the house, "Just in case I'm out when you come home for some reason" she'd said with a happy sigh._

_It started as a few scattershot afternoons when Jackson and Jonathan would return home to an empty house until their mother returned, harried and anxious, approximately fifteen minutes before their father was due home. Days such as these increased in frequency rapidly, until it became a major shock to see their mother home more than twenty minutes before their father._

_From the very beginning, their mother had made it obvious that her sons were never to tell their father that she wasn't home. "If Daddy asks you what you did today, tell him we all went to the movies" or "If Daddy calls, tell him that Mommy's taking a nap and can't pick up" were just some of the excuses she'd use, smiling to her sons as though this were a fun game to play. And she'd always end her instructions with, "It's a secret, okay?"_

_It got worse as the years passed. Since they always had trouble paying the bills, their father started to agree to more night shifts and to more jobs that involved being away from home. As their father grew absent for longer periods of time, so did their mother. She'd spend nights on end away from home, and Jackson and Jonathan would vaguely wonder where the hell she was sleeping._

_Even when her husband was home, Selena Crane still found ways to escape the house. She would pretend to be dropping off mail at the post office, or going to the laundromat's, and then come back three hours later. She would ask for money, saying that she needed to go grocery shopping, then come home hours later with the smell of alcohol on her breath and her lipstick smeared. On Sundays, she would tell her husband that she'd take Jackson and Jonathan to church, letting him "rest up after workin' so hard all week." In reality, she'd drop the boys off at a movie or the arcade before going off on her own._

_Once, when he was ten, Jackson had followed her during one of these "church visits". He'd left Jonathan at the movie theater while he stalked his mother from a distance until she stepped into the local bar. He had run up to the building and peered through one of the dingy windows to see his mother sitting in a strange man's lap, laughing carelessly before she downed a shot of vodka._

_Jackson had returned to the movie theater disgusted and angry, not paying attention to whatever movie was playing as he went over the image of mother in the tavern again and again and again._

_Throughout all the years that his wife pulled these schemes, Mr. Crane always seemed blissfully unaware of his wife's infidelity. Just as he merrily denied that his sons would ever do all the terrible things that they built their reputations off of, he never seemed to entertain the notion that his wife could have eyes for another man, even when he was gone from home so often. Jackson would wonder whether he was actually that naïve, or if it was just easier to see things the way he wanted to._

_In any case, his mother's reputation as the town slut was far more enraging than his father's naïveté in regards to her chastity. Jackson knew how the other housewives would murmur to each other about the things she did in town, the various boyfriends she kept wrapped around her finger, and the husbands who'd been made adulterous by her charms. And Jackson heard them gossip quietly about him as well when he walked through town, their voices low but clear, and their disapproval as irritating as it was obvious. Every time he passed by, they were always saying the same exact thing:_

"Well, what could you expect with a mother like that?"

Jackson hated his mother even when he was a young child. A feeling of disgust welling up inside of him whenever she returned home, tipsy from drinking and her makeup smudged, her skirt stained from the semen of horny men who'd found a cheap slut to fuck.

_He hated how obvious she was with her infidelity, especially when she spoke to either of her sons. There were times when she would stand in their bedroom doorway for a few minutes, musing mostly to herself as her sons ignored her. "It's sad, y'know?" she'd remark. "It's like I was never married. You'd think a man would wanna watch over his wife and protect what was his…y'know, make sure that no man would make eyes at your woman. But your dad's stupid that way. You'd hafta be an idiot to think that other men aren't gonna take advantage of the opportunity he's leaving them." She seemed to always forget how her husband could probably work fewer hours if she ever got off her ass and got a job._

Whenever she talked like that, Jackson's blood boiled, and rage would well up inside him. He just wanted to slam her against a wall and tell her what a whore she was, how she was needed to learn to keep her fucking legs together, how she was an ugly cunt that the whole town was laughing at. He wanted to scream at her how she was such a hypocrite for making it seem like a fucking emotional dilemma for her to lie there and let some guy bone her. He wanted to hurt her, to take something sharp and shred her face so that no man would ever find her beautiful, then cut out her tongue so he'd never have to hear her voice, and then chop off her legs so she couldn't spread them for any man that came along. He wanted to violate her a thousand times so that every time she even looked at another man, she'd think of Jackson's wrath and shudder.

_Every time that Jackson looked into a mirror, all he could feel was rage. His blue eyes had been inherited from his mother, as well as his pale skin and thin stature. It was obvious that they were related, and Jackson would often wish that he could look like someone else, anyone else, if that meant that she wouldn't have to look like the woman that he despised with such fervor._

_She'd abandoned him. Mothers were supposed to love their children and raise them, but she used every opportunity she could to abandon her kids to flee to the arms of strange men. And with his father gone all the time, Jackson was left alone with a little brother clinging to him for support._

_Jonathan would sometimes ask Jackson why he hated their parents so much, and Jackson would try to explain, but it always sounded like ranting and raving. Jackson knew that Jonathan would never understand, though, no matter how eloquently Jackson might phrase his reasons. Jackson had been abandoned. He had no mother or father to turn to, so he'd been forced to essentially raise himself during their absences. Jonathan didn't know what that was like; he'd had Jackson to lean on and turn to. He didn't know what abandonment felt like._

_Jackson would never understand why Jonathan felt so fucking guilty for killing her in the end. She'd deserved worse. Having a few bullets pumped into her was a light punishment compared to what Jackson would have liked to do with her. When Jackson had poured the gasoline over her corpse that night, he'd delighted herself by imagining her carcass ablaze, that hag face being eaten slowly by the flickering flames. The image had filled him with glee as he struck the match and ran._

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_Jackson remembered waking slowly waking up one morning about two months after he and Jonathan had begun their nighttime lovemaking. The morning sunlight beat down on his closed eyelids through the open bedroom window, marking for a very annoying wakeup call. Without opening his eyes, Jackson racked his brain to remember what day of the week it was. It was…Sunday. Which meant no school, and no reason to get up any earlier than noon._

_Feeling something that felt like hair tickle his chin, Jackson cracked open his eyelids to see the top of Jonathan's head, his brother's face hidden from view while buried in Jackson's chest. Feeling Jonathan's warm breathing on his collarbone, Jackson tried to remember the events of the last night. Thinking about it, he realized that he and Jonathan must have been too tired after fornicating to remember to sleep on separate mattresses. He did note that they seemed to have had enough energy to put their clothes back on, at least._

_In any case, sleeping in the same bed wasn't that unusual for them, even if they did normally sleep apart. Jackson could remember a few other times where lack of energy or sheer laziness had caused them to end the night sleeping each other's arms._

_Closing his eyes again, Jackson decided that he'd go back to sleep, not really wanting to get up quite yet. He allowed his mind to wander off in the pursuit of sleep, and he sunk his head into his pillow. Absentmindedly, he wrapped his left arm around Jonathan's back, the younger boy acting as a sort of human blanket as Jackson drifted back into lulling dreams._

_Jackson had almost managed to reach sweet unconscious when he heard a quiet creaking noise. He didn't realize the significance of this until it was too late, when the sound of a feminine gasp reached his ears._

_Eyes snapping open, Jackson turned his head to see his mother standing the bedroom doorway, her face a mixture of confusion, embarrassment, and curious suspicion._

"_I…um…I" she stammered, as whatever words she had meant to say stumbling as they tried to make their way from her mouth. Jackson bolted upright, suddenly immensely grateful that he and Jonathan had actually had enough energy to put their clothes on before falling asleep._

_His mother stammered for a few more seconds, obviously unsure of what to make of the sight before her eyes. "I just…um…" Shaking her head a little, she finally managed to ask, "Do you have ten bucks I could borrow?"_

Jackson, attempting to act calm as his heart pounded furiously, nodded and said, "There's some money on the desk."

His mother nodded dazedly for a second, obviously no longer focused on the money she needed to borrow. Without even a hint of moving towards the desk, she stood there, stuttering, "Is there…erm…" Taking a second to recompose herself, she asked, "What are you two doing in the same bed?"

Jackson looked down at Jonathan. "Oh," he remarked, as though he hadn't even noticed that there was another human being sleeping next to him. Pretending to think hard, he fumbled, "We…we grabbed some beers from the fridge last night, and we were drinking…I guess we must have passed out or something." 

"_Oh." His mother nodded absentmindedly before turning around and walking away without the ten dollars, glancing back at her sons every few seconds with suspicious eyes._

"_Wha…" Jackson felt Jonathan stir next to him, and Jackson looked to see his younger brother looking around, eyes half-open, a confused expression on his face. "Wha's goin' on?" he mumbled, not fully awake yet._

_Jackson looked at him, panicking internally with the anxious air of one caught in a trap. "Mom saw us."_

Jonathan's eyes widened as the full force of this statement hit home.

"_Oh, shit."_

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Jackson felt like a lead weight as he lay there on the couch, his head immobile on the arm of the sofa. As the rays of daylight beat against his face, Jackson felt like grabbing the sun and hitting its snooze button. Since he didn't have that option, however, he chose to pry his eyes open slowly in the hopes that he wouldn't be greeted by the horrific nightmares from before.

As his eyelids lifted, the image of Jonathan's bland, uninteresting apartment met his eyes. When Jackson realized that there were no corpses or demons or rivers of blood in his field of vision, Jackson immediately decided that Jonathan's apartment was the most beautiful thing in the world, and that he would never again hate the fact that it was so fucking ugly.

Moving his head slightly, Jackson glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. Twelve-thirty. Jonathan had left about five hours ago, and Jackson had been asleep ever since.

Turning onto his side, Jackson looked down and saw the cup of coffee that Jonathan had given him before he'd left. Even knowing that it would be cold and would taste like crap without milk or sugar, Jackson grabbed the milk with his right hand and began to sip at the weak-tasting coffee. At this point, he needed some caffeine is his system.

After a few more gulps of the stale beverage, Jackson felt somewhat more awake. Slowly, he sat up on the couch, aching all over and a migraine pounding inside his skull.

Groggily, Jackson made an attempt to stand up, his legs feeling like dead weight beneath him. Tentatively perched on his feet, Jackson managed to stand for about two seconds before crashing face-first to the ground.

Feeling much more awake once the jolts of pain shot through his face, Jackson pushed himself up into a sitting position. Now aching even more than before, Jackson's head pounded as he surveyed the room around him in annoyance.

Remembering the vivid hallucinations of the previous night, Jackson felt a surge of curiosity and skepticism. Whatever Jonathan might say, those visions were most definitely not the result of a bad drinking spree. He'd been drunk before, and he'd never gone through hell like that. And he'd had hangovers as well, but this was much worse than any he'd had before. Jackson felt like he'd been beaten to death with a tire iron, and he was so dizzy that he almost couldn't see straight.

Grabbing the mug holding the remains of the coffee, Jackson gulped down the rest of the shitty beverage in one fell swoop. Not feeling better for having done so, Jackson carelessly tossed the mug off to the side, not really caring if the dregs got on Jonathan's floor.

Turning around, Jackson grabbed the arm of the sofa and pulled himself back onto the couch. As soon as he had done so, he lay back down with his head on the arm of the sofa. The mystery of the hallucinations could wait. Jackson felt like crap, and all he felt like doing was getting some sleep.

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_For the rest of that day, Jonathan and Jackson had felt completely on edge. Even without saying so out loud, they both knew that they were in really deep shit. If their mother figured out what they were doing all those nights they spent alone, then there was no doubt that they were completely screwed._

_Jonathan spent the rest of the day racking his brain for all the possible things their parents could do to them. Grounding them for life seemed too minor, and it wasn't like they'd ever be able to enforce it. Major therapy seemed like an obvious result, but how in the hell would they afford it? Maybe they'd send them to boot camp or something to try and straighten them out. Or maybe it'd be like when a teenage girl got pregnant, and one of them would be sent away to a relative so that they'd never see each other again._

_Wait, wasn't incest illegal? Realizing this, Jonathan started to feel ill. Their parents could send them to jail for years if they wanted to. And not just for the sex, either. They'd already admitted to drinking, and they were both underage._

_Jonathan felt nauseous, and his head began pounding with an awful migraine. This was not good._

_That night, when the two brothers heard the sounds of a car driving away and their mother's heels clicking up the driveway, their hearts sank in dread of what was to come._

_She didn't confront them right away, as they had silently expected. Instead she went into her room and changed out of her sleeveless top and short skirt in to the more casual outfit of jeans and a blouse. As soon as she did so, she walked into the living room and sat quietly on the sofa, hands in her lap as she waited. _

_After about twenty minutes more, they could all hear the crunch of gravel as Mr. Crane's car pulled into the driveway. An onlooker would have been amused at the way that all three members of the family stiffened as they heard his footsteps coming up the stairs to the door. An onlooker would have also enjoyed the desperation with which Jonathan and Jackson scrambled to their closed bedroom door and pressed their ears tightly against the wood so as not to miss a syllable of the conversation that would ensue._

_As their father swung open the door, they heard the cheerful call, "I'm home!" resonate throughout the house. Jonathan checked his watch. 9:18 PM. Armageddon had begun._

_The two brothers listened to their father's plodding footsteps as he trod over to their mother. They heard a wet smacking of lips as he gave her a chaste kiss before asking, "And how are you?"_

"Oh, fine. How was work?"

"Same old, same old. Where are the boys?"

A sigh. "They're in their room, as always."

"Alrighty. I'll just pop in and say hi to them…"

"Wait."  


_A pause. Jonathan could clearly envision the almost pained expression on his mother's face as she bit her lip in frustration, his father giving her a curious yet worried expression. But maybe that was just him being melodramatic._

"_I need to talk to you for a minute."_

"…what's wrong?"

_A pause. Jonathan and Jackson exchanged a glance, and Jonathan could see that the urgency he felt was reflected in his brother's eyes. They both held their breath, as though doing so could help them pass safely through the flames._

"_I know I might be making too big a deal out of this…I mean, it's probably nothing, but…"_

"Yeah?"

"Well, this morning, I went into our sons' room…"

"And?"

Jonathan rolled his eyes. He knew that his mother's pauses were deliberate. After all those years of acting classes, she knew how to create some major dramatic tension.

_As though a metaphorical bubble had burst, their mother blurted out, "I saw the two of them sleeping in the same bed."  
_

_A pause._

"_Did you ask them why?"_

"They said that they took some beer from the fridge and must have passed out from drinking."

A sigh. "I'll talk to them. I've told them before not to touch the liquor in the house. But I guess boys will be boys."

There was an incredulous pause as three members of the family seemed frozen from disbelief. Jonathan was overjoyed, his heart pounded in relief. He mentally offered thanks to every deity he could think of for making his father a gullible fool.

_Of course, Mrs. Crane was far from finished. "And…?" she asked expectantly, clearly not believing what she was hearing._

"_And what?"_

"_Well, don't you find that a little strange?"_

"That they were drunk?"

"That they were in the same bed!" their mother shrieked, and Jonathan couldn't help but giggle a little at how hysterical she sounded over the whole thing.

_Sounding taken aback, their father asked, "Jackson said that they passed out, right?"_

"Yeah."

"Then what's the problem?"

There was a pause in which Jonathan could only assume that his mother was gathering her thoughts. He mashed his ear up against the door not sure what she was going to say or even what he wanted to hear. Looking over at Jackson, Jonathan could see that his brother was trying to do the exact same thing.

_After a few seconds, their mother replied calmly, "The way they were lying there…well, they had their arms around each other."_

There was a clink and a pouring sound. Their father must have gone to the kitchen and poured himself a drink.

"_Look, when you're asleep, you're not sure what you're doing. It's like how someone'll grab a pillow or a blanket in their sleep, and they don't even realize they're doin' it."_

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"The way they were holding each other…it almost seemed intimate."

"_So? Selena, this isn't some grand mystery. They got drunk. They passed out. They happened to pass out on the same mattress. That's all there is to it."_

Jonathan listened to their father's plodding footsteps as he left his wife to go to their room. When their mother's lighter treading didn't follow, Jonathan breathed a sigh of a relief and sat back from the door.

_Looking over at Jackson, Jonathan grinned a little. "It's over."_

Jackson leaned back on his palms, staring curiously out into empty space. "Not for her, it isn't."

----------

_Jackson's prediction was proved sadly accurate. Their mother, who hadn't spent a single second she didn't have to with her sons in the previous decade, had decided to take it upon herself to monitor their every movement., from rising in the morning until they went to sleep at night. It was a complete one-eighty degree change for Jonathan and Jackson, and an irritating one at that._

_It all started the next morning, when their mother swung open their bedroom door at 6:15 in the morning, an hour and fifteen minutes before they needed at school. She cheerfully shook them awake, acting as though this were a ritual she'd performed every day of her life. Little did she realize that her sons had never given a shit about making it to school on time, and had no qualms with showing up late or unprepared._

_After making them eat pieces of burnt toast (a culture-shock to two brothers who'd spent years eating potato chips for breakfast), she marched them off to the bus stop. The other kids waiting there were rather surprised, since they'd never seen either Crane brother on the bus before. Their mother, trying to be as maternal as possible, stood and watched as the bus pulled away while her two sons wondered what in the hell they had just experienced._

_She was there that afternoon, too, when they arrived home from school. She was sitting in the living room, reading a magazine until they entered. She had greeted them warmly before asking them pleasantly about their day. The two boys had answered gruffly before going to their room and shutting the door behind them._

_That evening, at around seven o'clock, she called them out of their room brightly so that they would come have dinner. "It's been so long since we all sat down to a meal together," she remarked, adding, "You know, just the three of us."_

Dinner consisted of stale, reheated pizza and some soda pop. Throughout the meal, Jonathan and Jackson were forced to endure awkward questions about various topics. Mostly, though, she tried to focus her questions around girls: girls at their school, girls they thought were pretty, girls they talked to, and girls that might potentially make good wives. Their answers were short and bland, until Jackson had a stroke of brilliance and decided to start listing every female he had ever considered even slightly attractive, describing certain aspects of their anatomy before rating them on a scale of one to ten. He was about to go into a recollection of a particularly vivid wet dream when his mother stopped him, saying that she'd throw up if he said any more.

_After dinner, the two boys retreated back into their room, lounging around until ten o'clock, when their mother burst once more into their room. This time, she cheerfully announced that it was time for them to get some sleep if they wanted to wake up on time for school. Jackson promptly responded with, "Go away, you ugly cunt," which led to some squabbling over the next hour. The last thing Jonathan remembered before falling asleep was hearing Jackson ask if she'd rather have him be anatomically correct and refer to her as a vagina._

----------

Jonathan was slowly beginning to learn that the job of a psychiatrist could easily drive a person as insane as the patients they were trying to help.

It wasn't the patients themselves that bothered Jonathan; far from it, in fact. Deciphering a person's mental state was like a game to Jonathan, a cruel game in which you could learn a person's greatest fears and deepest secrets. No, it was Jonathan's colleagues that were slowly driving him to the brink of madness.

"Oh, Dr. Crane, I just wanted to let you know how much I admire/respect/worship you/your work/the ground that you walk on. Is there anything I can do to help you/make your life easier/get you in bed?"

Honestly, their kiss-ass behavior did nothing but irritate him beyond all measure. All those backstabbing infants wanted was a good reputation…and his job. It seemed that in their years of medical training, no one had ever told them that sucking up was not the only way to get their boss's attention. There were times that Jonathan just wanted to scream at them to get back to work already before he did some very drastic things to their faces with a scalpel.

Besides, their praise over his intelligence or talent was all bullshit, anyway. Most of them weren't under any delusions about how to attain authority in Arkham. The majority of them had gotten their jobs the same way that Jonathan had: connections to Falcone. There were a few, however, that had gotten in because of rich benefactor families who were willing to make rather generous donations. Those scattershot few remained blissfully unaware of their colleagues' Mafia ties, accepting their higher-ups' empty talk of "skill" and "knowledge".

All in all, Arkham's staff was made completely out of the corrupt or wealthy. After all, it was the most renowned asylum in the state; it was too proficient to allow doctors who got by on talent.

In any case, Jonathan should have known not to get thirsty in the middle of the day. Getting thirsty was a dangerous thing to do in the middle of a work shift, because that meant that your thirst would have to be quenched. And to do that, you needed to go to the water cooler.

Jonathan was a fairly practical person, and he had a tendency to view the water cooler as an item used to fill a small plastic cup with cold water. Apparently, he was mistaken in this assumption, since absolutely everyone else on the Arkham staff used the water cooler as a place to tear into each others' reputations.

Jonathan wasn't under any delusions that the other doctors didn't tear into him while he wasn't around. He honestly didn't give a damn what those jealous, malicious hacks thought of him. No, it was the fact that the water cooler was the place where his underlings took the time to pass on to him the most vicious rumors they could muster, in the hopes of knocking all others out of Jonathan's favor.

Sure enough, as Jonathan walked over to the water cooler, three of his colleagues were chatting animatedly about some other doctor's extramarital affair. He knew all of them: Mark, a middle-aged doctor who shouldn't have graduated high school, let alone medical school; Harley, a brutal blonde with an annoying giggle; and Raymond, a semi-senile psychologist.

Nearing them, Jonathan could hear snippets of their conversation, and fully dreaded what he was getting himself into.

"…I mean, just look at a picture of her! She looks like something my dog threw up, and he's actually _fucking_ her!"

This statement was greeted by a chorus of giggles. As Jonathan came closer, he silently hoped that he would somehow go unnoticed. But as soon as he came near, the three other doctors greeted him with a chorus of, "Hey there, Jonathan!" Inwardly, he groaned at the supposedly friendly abuse of his first name. Nodding a hello, Jonathan grabbed a plastic cup as quickly as he could, hoping to get this painful experience over with as soon as was humanly possible.

But, of course, this was not meant to be. Crowding around him like moths to a candle flame, the three doctors smiled as though they and Jonathan were as chummy as could be. The first to open his mouth was Mark, who established himself as head gossip the second he let out idiotic word after idiotic word.

"Did you hear about the new doctor? The one the board of directors chose to replace Robert?"

Harley nodded, squeaking in her high-pitched tone, "I heard he was supposed to start today."

Jonathan racked his brain as the water filled his cup. Now that he thought about it, he did remember hearing that the board had selected a new doctor to work at the asylum. However, the rest of what he'd heard had been relentless monotone as Jonathan imagined what his superior's head would look like on a pike.

Raymond asked Mark with suspicious curiosity, "What's he supposed to be like? I heard he's coming straight from med school."

Mark rolled his eyes with an undeserved haughtiness before replying. "Jackass has one of those rich fathers that 'persuaded' the board to take him on. I mean, really: he's supposed to be one of those rich, hoity-toity mama's boys from frigging _Long Island_. Can somebody scream 'pussy' for me, please?"

A chorus of laughter ensued, with Jonathan trying to make an escape, until a high-pitched, somewhat nasal voice noted, "Wouldn't it be really awkward if you turned around and the new guy was standing right behind you?"

All four doctors turned their heads to see a young-looking man with an annoyed smirk on his face. He was fairly short, about 5'6", 5'7" at most. His skin was pale, and his face came off as somewhat effeminate, as though the doctors were dealing with an irritated pixie. He had shoulder-length black hair, which was tousled in a way that wasn't nearly as attractive as the wearer probably thought it was. What was most striking about the young doctor, however, were his icy blue eyes, which looked like marbles sitting in his sockets and peering closely at each of them.

Right then, he seemed to be either annoyed or bemused. In either case, he seemed to enjoy the deep shade of red that the three jabbering doctors turned when they figured out exactly who was addressing them.

Speaking in that slightly haughty tone that people adopt when they feel insulted and smiling with false sincerity, the young doctor extended his hand in a gesture of mock friendliness. "Name's Leon Warren, clinical psychiatrist. And I'll wager that you're my new coworkers, correct?"

Awkwardly, the three gossipmongers nodded before shaking his hand in turn before mumbling their names. As soon as they did so, they quickly scurried away, hastily making excuses as they scampered back to their offices. Jonathan, too, was about to use this opportunity to escape, and had made it about five feet when Leon's nasal voice called out, "I didn't quite catch your name."

Jonathan stopped and turned to see Leon watching him, the haughty annoyance gone and replaced with curiosity. Jonathan walked over to him, resigned to introducing himself to yet another coworker that he would learn to loathe over time. Extending his hand, he stated dully, "I'm Dr. Jonathan Crane. I'm the head doctor at this asylum."

Shaking his hand warmly, Leon remarked with a grin, "So, you're my boss then? Do I need to bow down or do I just lick your shoes?"

Mentally groaning at the prospect of yet another suck-up for an underling, Jonathan replied, "That'll be unnecessary."

Pulling his hand away, Leon arched his eyebrow in amusement. "I was joking." Smiling, he continued. "In any case, I suppose I'll be seeing you around."

"I would presume so."

"Well, then, I'll see you later, then, Dr. Crane."

Nodding, Jonathan began to walk away, leaving Leon back by the water cooler. Relieved to be able to finally return to his office, Jonathan noted that at least the new guy had the decency not to call him by his first name.

----------

_For the next week or so after that first day of their mother's meddling, Jackson and Jonathan were forced to endure the same daily ritual of irritating intrusion._

_Their mother soon began hovering around her sons as though they were explosives that could detonate at any minute. Rather than letting them spend their spare time in their rooms, she would insist they sit in the living room where she could keep an eye on them. Whenever they set foot out of the house for even a second, she would demand to know where they were going and why. And she seemed to spend every minute of the day asking them probing questions._

"_How're your grades in school? What kinds of kids do you hang out with? Are you in any clubs? What're your classes? Do you like any of your teachers? What kind of food do you eat there?"_

Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

_After so many years of having to fend for themselves, the relentless intrusions into their lives were beyond irritating for the two brothers. Since before they could remember, they'd been given free reign to do as they pleased, and to suddenly switch to a strict schedule was a huge transition, as well as an unwelcome one._

_The part that irritated Jackson the most was the insincerity of the whole thing. She wasn't switching to supermom because she wanted to become a good parent, or because she felt some kind of guilt for never having been around before, or even because she loved her kids. No, it was because she caught her sons sleeping in the same bed, and she wanted proof that her assumptions were correct. Even worse, she seemed to think that the constant supervision would somehow "straighten them out". It was just abhorrent; she didn't give a shit about her own kids until she realized what messed-up little fucks they truly were._

_One night, after a week of such torture, Jonathan and Jackson were lounging around their living room when heavy footsteps trod up the front steps, the door swung open, and a familiar voice boomed, "I'm home!"_

_Jackson and Jonathan didn't even look up as their father made his way into the room, beaming as he shed his jacket. A second later, Mrs. Crane entered the room as well, smiling awkwardly. "Hello, honey."_

_Grinning ear to ear, Mr. Crane wrapped his arms around his wife in a bear hug before giving her what was probably a very uncomfortable kiss._

_After pulling out of their lip lock, he brightly asked, "And how're you doing, dear?"_

Smiling as though forced to do so at gunpoint, Mrs. Crane replied, "Doin' just fine. And you?"

"Peachy!" her husband replied jovially, not seeming to notice the lack of enthusiasm behind his wife's voice.

_Hoping that his parents were sufficiently distracted, Jackson quietly made his way towards the front door. He was desperate to escape his mother's hovering, and she hadn't let him out of the house all day except for school. If that didn't constitute cruel and unusual punishment, nothing did._

_He wasn't sure what he'd do once he got out of the house. Probably, he'd go into town and terrorize a few people. All he knew for sure was that he had to get out of that house as soon as was physically possible._

_As fate would have it, though, he only made it about a step outside when he felt a hand grabbing the collar of his shirt and heard his mother's voice asking, "And where are you going?"_

Sighing, Jackson replied flatly, "The woods."

"Why do you wanna go there?"

"Because I'm bored as all hell. Can I go now?"

"Why don't you just stay here? Your father's home, so why don't you tell him all about your day…"

Turning around, Jackson practically spat, "I've been stuck in this fucking house all fucking day for the last fucking week! If it's not too much of a frigging problem for you, I'd like to go outside!"

Trying to be placating, Jackson's father said calmly, "Honey, just let him outside for a while. I'm sure it's no big deal…"

Turning to her husband, Mrs. Crane hissed under her breath, "Frank, I don't want him going out alone at night."

Replying in kind, her husband hissed, "He's sixteen years old, for crying out loud! Nothing's gonna happen to him!"

"That's not what I'm worried about!"  


_Sighing, Mr. Crane turned to Jackson and asked calmly, "Could you and Jonathan go into your room for a little while? Your mother and I need to talk for a minute."_

Grateful for the excuse to not have to listen to his mother's shrieking, Jackson walked to his room, Jonathan following him along the way. As soon as they had locked themselves inside, they pressed their ears against the door so that they wouldn't miss a single syllable of the ensuing conversation.

"_Selena, what's this about? Why are you acting so crazy lately?"_

"It's our sons. They're doing things behind our back, Frank. They're hiding things from us."

"So what? They're teenagers! Of course they're not going to tell us everything that goes on when we're not around."

"It's not like that! It's not girls or parties or drugs, or anything that other kids hide from their parents."

"Then what is it?"

There was a long, distinct pause, and Jackson strained his ears trying to listen for what his mother would say next.

_Surprisingly enough, it was his father who broke the silence instead._

"_This is about last week, isn't it? When you saw them passed out?"_

"…yes."

There was a deep sigh, and when his father responded, Jackson could sense a hint of irritation in his voice.

"Look, there are better ways to get them to stop drinking than to treat them like prisoners…"

"That's not what I'm talking about!"

"Then what!"

There was another pause, this one longer than the last. When their mother finally replied, her voice seemed solemn and suspicious.

"_Have you heard the rumors around town? About our sons?"_

"Selena…"

"People are saying that they do things in the woods…That they dissect the dead animals they find, and that they take people's pets out there and take out their organs. Like the O'Reilly's dog. They found it in their backyard, and it was missing its tongue and its stomach. And…and I've heard that they do other things, too."

"Other things?"

"Someone…someone mentioned to me once that neither of them seem to look at girls, or anything like that. And that…well, they spend an awful lot of time with each other…"

The anger in his father's voice became more evident as he shouted, "Selena, do you hear yourself?"

"I didn't believe it, either, until I saw them together in that bed!"

"Selena, you can't be serious."

"Frank you can't just deny that they're up to something. I'll admit, maybe I'm wrong. But the least I can do is keep an eye on them"

Throughout all of this, Jackson had felt rage welling up inside of him, his temper flaring at the utter hypocrisy of everything she was saying. That ugly slut was worried about him lying about what he did between the sheets!

_  
Angry enough that he could barely see straight, he swung open his bedroom door with a bam. Without hesitation, he stormed down the short hallways while Jonathan practically squeaked, "Jackson!"_

Jackson could see the looks of surprise on his parents' faces as he entered the room, unaware that he had heard everything that had escaped their lips. Fury pulsing within him, Jackson turned to his mother and stated, as calmly as he could manage, "You're worried what we do behind your back? Is that what it is?"

_Taken aback, his mother pleaded, "Jackson, go back to your room…"_

"You, of all people, are worried what other people are doing behind your back? You're concerned that we're doing depraved things in bed?"

_Glancing back and forth between her husband and her son, she begged quietly, "Jackson, please…"_

"FUCK. YOU." Even as he saw his father flinch, Jackson bristled with anger, his hands balled into tight fists.

"_You're such a fucking hypocrite, do you know that? You're on some fucking high horse when it comes to your kids, but it doesn't seem to matter that the only reason you don't seem to know a damn thing about them is because you run away from them as fast as you can whenever you get the chance!"_

His eyes closed and his expression pained, Jackson's father murmured, "Jackson, don't…"

"And what do you do when you leave the house? You hop into bed with first set of balls you can get to. And you get drunk or high and you go fuck some more men, and you come home and pretend that you're just the perfect little housewife, instead of the ugly slut that you really are."

Panicking and angry, his mother hissed, "How dare you say…"

"How dare I? How dare you come home with men's cum all over your skirt? How dare you spend every second you can with other men who just fuck you because you're easy? Did you know that everyone laughs at you? Everyone in this town hates you. Those women whose husbands you're fucking hate you! Their kids hate you! Even those men you're screwing hate you! I hate you! The only person that doesn't hate you is the guy you've been cheating on for over a decade!"

His mother's mouth moved wordlessly, whatever reply she had meant to say lost on its way past her tongue. A river of tears poured out of her eyes, her mascara becoming a trail of black down her cheeks. Her husband still said nothing, his eyes closed and his face expressionless.

_Feeling somewhat calmer from his outburst, Jackson coldly hissed, "You're a hideous little whore. You aren't worth shit to me, or to anyone else in this town. You're an embarrassment. And I would do anything just so I wouldn't have to call you my mother."_

Jackson stood there for a few seconds, watching his mother's shoulders move jerkily as small sobs arose from her throat. Looking pale, she collapsed onto the sofa as she buried her face into her palms. Feeling disgusted with the hysterical woman in front of him, Jackson marched to the front door and left, vanishing silently into the darkness of the woods.

----------

_Jackson had been wandering through the forest for about an hour or so when he could hear a familiar voice faintly call, "Jackson?"_

He stood still for a moment, listening. Once again, there was the quiet call. "Jackson?"

"Scarecrow?" Jackson replied, peering around blindly in the darkness of the woods. A crunching of twigs came from nearby, and Jackson vaguely saw Jonathan emerge from some foliage about five feet away.

"_Hey," his younger brother stated quietly, a small, reluctant smile on his lips as he made his way towards Jackson._

"_Hey," replied Jackson in a tired voice. "What're you doing out here?"_

Staring at the ground, Jonathan said, "Mom and Dad are still trying to figure out whether they're arguing or not. Dad's not saying much, and Mom's apologizing a lot, even though she keeps saying that you were lying."

Leaning against the trunk of a tree, Jackson sighed. "Figures."

Sitting down on the ground next to his brother, Jonathan continued. "Mom's been sobbing a lot and telling Dad that I'll back her up and say she's not a whore or something, so I climbed out the window in our room before they got the chance."

Jackson arched an eyebrow and looked over at his brother. "And would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Lie for her?"

Jonathan sighed and shook his head. "No. But I don't want to have to listen to them anymore. If I get dragged into it, it'll be all night before they stop. Besides…" Jonathan stopped abruptly, quickly swallowing the words that were about to escape his lips.

"_Besides what?" asked Jackson curiously. Jonathan shook his head. "It's nothing."  
_

"_Oh, c'mon. Just say it already."_

Jonathan paused for a second and then let out a sigh. "It's not gonna change anything. You know that, right?"

Jackson stared into space, his face expressionless. Jonathan adjusted his glasses awkwardly before adding, "They're just gonna go back to how things were before. Dad'll have to go back to work, and Mom'll just go back to her men."

Jackson nodded slightly, as though mournful of how true Jonathan's statement was. "Yeah, I know." He sat down next to his brother, dried leaves and twigs crunching underneath.

_Frowning a little pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Jonathan asked, "You gonna sleep out here tonight?"_

Jackson nodded. "If I wake up in time, I'll catch the bus to school tomorrow. If not, I'll just wander around until the time we'd normally be home. Mom'll have calmed down by then."

Smiling a little, Jonathan noted, "You'll have bugs crawling all over you tomorrow morning."

Jackson shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Smile fading, Jonathan picked up a twig, looked at it for a second, then tossed it as far as he could for no apparent reason. "If you want, I'll sneak a pillow or blanket or something out here for you."

Jackson shook his head. "I'll be fine. It's warm out tonight."

Jonathan nodded a little, and there was a long silence as the two brothers sat together in the woods, barely moving or thinking. They stayed that way for several minutes, hearing nothing but the distant sounds of nighttime critters in the trees.

_After awhile, Jonathan stood up and broke the silence, announcing, "I'm gonna head back. They'll probably have stopped fighting by now."_

_He began to walk away when Jackson grabbed his wrist, commanding, "Wait."_

Jonathan stopped and turned around to look at his brother, seemingly unsure of how to respond.

"_Um…okay."_

He sat back down, this time across from Jackson as he leaned against the trunk of a tree. Jackson watched him for a few seconds, quietly observing, before he crawled over to his younger brother and gave him a rough kiss on the lips.

_Pulling out of the lip lock, Jonathan murmured, "They'll come looking for us."_

Kneeling up right, Jackson responded, "Let them."

_He leaned over and kissed him on the neck, holding his lips there as Jonathan's fingers became entwined in his hair. He sucked a little at the flesh before moving his lips along Jonathan's jaw bone, eliciting a small moan from the younger boy._

_Jonathan leaned back, looking up at his older brother with curious eyes as he moved his hands down Jackson's back. Jackson moved his hands to underneath Jonathan's shirt, pulling the fabric upwards to expose his brother's chest. As soon as the shirt had been removed, Jackson leaned down to roughly kiss the boy's neck lowering himself onto him. Jonathan's face became buried into his shoulder as he slowly undid the boy's belt, knowing full well that he would not sleep alone amongst the trees._

_Inside the house, a husband and wife had finished arguing and were now engaging in carnal acts between the sheets in a desperate act of reconciliation, unaware that not very far away, their two sons were doing the exact same thing. All four were blissfully unaware of what the future held. They didn't know that the next day, the wife and mother would soon be in the bed of a different man, trying her best to forget about her husband. They were unaware that their eldest son would go to a bar in a few day's time and meet a man who would give him an offer that he wouldn't dare refuse. And they were oblivious to the fact that in less than a week, both mother and father would lie dead, their house would be in flames, and their sons would be separated as they both pursued futures of crime and violence, murder and torment._

----------

Even with closed eyelids, Jackson could feel the brightness of he lights in the room turning on. Lying on the sofa, he could hear a faint tread of footsteps entering the room.

Jonathan was home.

Jackson could hear the footsteps coming closer, but he kept his eyes closed and his breathing shallow. He listened as Jonathan crouched next to him, checking to see if he was still asleep. Apparently satisfied, Jackson heard retreating footsteps moving away from the couch.

Jackson's eyes snapped open as he reached for the kitchen knife hidden under the blanket before lunging at his brother. Jonathan didn't even have the chance to turn around before he was knocked to the ground, the steely blade pressed against his throat.

The knife quivering over his brother's neck, Jackson crouched over him, panting, "Surprised…Scarecrow?"

Jonathan, visibly shaken, tried to act nonchalant as he dryly replied, "Do you greet everyone like this, or am I just special?"

Pressing the blade against the skin of Jonathan's throat, Jackson quietly told him, "Don't act too cocky, Scarecrow." He angled the blade so that a trickle of blood formed, running down to Jonathan's collarbone. Jackson hissed at him menacingly, "What the hell did you do to me?"

Jonathan feigned ignorance, muttering, "What are you talking about?"

Angered even more, Jackson traced the tip of the knife roughly along Jonathan's jawbone, tiny beads of blood appearing in its wake.

"You did something last night…I felt like I was being tortured for hours. You did something to me last night."

"Jackson, you were drunk."

"Bullshit." Jackson held the flat edge of the blade against the side of Jonathan's neck, enjoying the slight trembling that he felt from Jonathan underneath him.

"You were wearing a mask. You sprayed something into the air."

Frowning, Jonathan replied flatly, "Jackson, do you realize how ridiculous you sou-…"

He was cut off when Jackson slammed the butt of the knife across his face, making the younger man cry out in pain.

"You son of a bitch," Jonathan hissed as he struggled to get up. Jackson, undeterred, slammed him back onto the ground. Holding his shoulders down, the knife momentarily tossed to the floor, Jackson grinned cruelly.

"Well, doesn't this seem familiar. Me on top, you on the bottom. Just like old times, right, Scarecrow?"

The anger that flared up in Jonathan's eyes was unmistakable. Jackson felt something akin to triumph when he saw it, which was probably why he didn't see Jonathan grab the knife until it was too late.

A split second was all it took for Jonathan to slice across Jackson's shoulder, leaving a shallow gash. Jackson gasped in pain, falling onto his side. Jonathan used the opportunity to spring up and hold the tip of the knife against Jackson's throat, holding the older man's hair back by yanking his hair.

Jackson looked at Jonathan, the tip of the blade about to pierce his Adam's apple. "Not bad," he remarked cheekily. "Pretty clear thinking, given the circumstances."

"Shut up," Jonathan growled, the blood on his jawbone now slipping down his neck to join the small pool that had already formed on his collarbone.

Kneeling on the ground, Jackson looked up at his brother's face, which was contorted with fury.

"Touché," he remarked, only to have the pressure from the blade increase.

"Why did you come here?" Jonathan asked coldly, his hand shaking as he steadied himself to the point where he was standing firmly on the ground.

"What do you mean?" Jackson asked with as much innocence as he could muster. Jonathan was not amused, and slapped him hard across the face with his unoccupied hand.

This pissed Jackson off. Here he was, simply trying to threaten his brother at knifepoint, and he had to go and copycat his idea. If one could plagiarize acts of violence, Jackson would drag Jonathan all the way to an electric chair.

Jonathan crouched down, his chilly smile indicating that he enjoyed the reversal of power.

"I believe…" Jonathan murmured tauntingly, "…that I asked you a question."

Jackson glared at his brother, a snarl about to escape from his lips. Undeterred, Jonathan asked quietly, "Why did you come here?"

Not one to submit to authority, even authority wielding a knife, Jackson replied with saccharine sweetness, "What, can't brothers pay each other social calls?"

"You waited thirteen years for a social call?" asked Jonathan incredulously.

"Maybe I didn't know where you were."

"You must not have looked."

Clutching his bleeding shoulder, his face still stinging, Jackson decided that he didn't like this game anymore. He wasn't sure if Jonathan actually knew how to handle a knife, but he wasn't willing to risk his neck to find out.

"I'm on the run," he stated frankly, the blood from his shoulder oozing outward and staining his shirt.

"I know. You tried to kill someone in the government."

Jackson shook his head a little. "I'm not running from the cops. I could handle them if I needed to."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "Then who are you running from?"

Jackson smiled a little, humorlessly and ironically. "My bosses."

Jonathan gave him an odd look, prompting Jackson to explain. "I'm a liability. I got caught trying, and failing, to kill the head of Homeland Security. If the cops found me, then I could sell out my higher-ups for a lesser sentence. My bosses don't like that idea, so it's better for them if I just disappear."

Jonathan smiled a little, coldly and cruelly. "And you thought you could hide here?"

Jackson shrugged. "Maybe."

Jonathan chuckled a little. "Well, that was smart. You run from men trying to kill you and end up with a knife at your throat."

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "You really think the two situations are similar?"

Jonathan grinned evilly, sliding the blade across Jackson's throat. "Yes. Think hard. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you now."

A defiant gleam in his eye, Jackson paused before shaking his head. "I don't need to."

Jonathan slid the blade slowly and carefully under his brother's chin, making the older man wince and shudder. Calmly, he inquired, "And why not?"

Even while wincing, Jackson managed a small, cocky smile. "Because you won't kill me."

Jackson could see that Jonathan was angered by this answer, as well as visibly taken aback. Trying to compose himself, Jonathan dug the blade into Jackson skin, making blood dribble down his neck. Jackson didn't respond, except to murmur: "You're not going to kill me. You never could, and you never will."

There was a long pause after this statement, the silence almost unbearable in the stifling air of the room. Jackson gazed calmly at Jonathan, whose eyes seemed to hold immeasurable depths of rage as the knife's edge slowly dug deeper into Jackson's flesh.

After what seemed like hours, the knife's pressure decreased until Jonathan pulled it away, a dose of self-loathing now mixed in with the previous fury.

"Get out," he hissed, still clutching the knife firmly, the blood on his throat having become a congealed river. Standing up slowly, Jackson looked at his brother carefully for a moment before stumbling towards the door and out into the hall.

His shoulder still bleeding, Jackson leaned against the far wall as he made his war out the hall and down the stairs, leaving a long streak of crimson in his wake. Only dully feeling the pain, Jackson could sense Jonathan's eyes following him, even though he knew that he was still inside his apartment.

Walking down the front steps of the apartment building, Jackson felt the nighttime chill hit him like a crashing wave. A light snowfall had begun, and every breath that Jackson let out would hang in the air as a puff of smoke before vanishing quietly.

Shivering without a jacket while he clutched his bleeding shoulder, the warmth of the blood seemed like an odd contrast to the cold air around him.

After walking a few feet away from the building, Jackson looked up. Sure enough, there was Jonathan, watching him from the window of his apartment. Seeing him, Jackson lowered his eyes and continued to walk, making his way down the block at a slow pace.

He had reached the street corner a minute later, and he was waiting for the streetlight to turn green when he heard the distant sound of running footfall. The sound grew louder for several seconds until it stopped, replaced by heavy panting as the runner caught their breath.

Jackson didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He merely stood still and said calmly, "I knew you'd come running."

The heavy panting continued for a second or two more before Jonathan said in a resigned tone, "Jackson, just come on."

Silently, Jackson turned around to look at his brother, whose face was a mixture of desperation and self-loathing.

Without a word, Jonathan began the march back to the building, Jackson following obediently. If anyone had seen them at that late hour, they would have said it looked a man leading himself to his own grave.


	5. Switchblades and Spirit Gum

I'm starting to think my Literature teacher is unconsciously influencing this story. Seriously. When I was writing Chapter 4 (during his class…I'm a terrible student), he was rambling about how women will search for any excuse to cheat on their husbands, just like his ex-wives did when they were married to him. Meanwhile, there I was, writing about the ever-slutty Selena. Also, Jackson and Jonathan's father's name is Frank, which is my Literature teacher's first name. And then, when I was writing a section about Anna in my notebook yesterday morning, what do I hear him shrieking?

"You don't mess with a Mafia princess! You just don't! Even if she deserves it, it's a stupid idea!"

Kinda creepy.

Also, one thing you might notice as you read through this chapter is that dialogue from Chapter 1 is being shown again. That's because we've almost reached the apex of the flashbacks, which is Anna's murder (which was touched upon in Chapter 1). Once we get past that, we'll be seeing in the flashbacks exactly what Jonathan and Jackson were up to for those thirteen years that they were separated.

In any case, enjoy the newest chapter!

----------

THE ONE WARNING: I don't do warnings. Proceed at your own risk.

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Disclaimer: I'm telling you, Mr. Craven, I'll let them know that I don't own 'Red Eye' once you send me backstage passes for the filming of the sequel! Same goes for you, Mr. Nolan! And I better be able to get into Cillian's trailer, or somebody's gonna suffer!

----------

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Switchblades and Spirit Gum_

_It was a cool day in December when Jackson decided to wander around town. His father was at work, his mother was passed out in her bedroom, and Jonathan had actually remembered to go to school that day. Jackson had chosen to sleep through their alarm, deciding that a pillow was a much better thing to rest one's head on than a desktop._

_At about 10 AM, Jackson had finally managed to drag himself out of bed. After eating some leftover Chinese food for breakfast, he peered into his parents' room to see his mother sprawled all over the mattress, the room smelling like stale alcohol and cigarettes. After realizing that she wouldn't wake up even if a car plowed into her, Jackson stole some money out of her purse, changed into clean clothes, and headed into town._

_As soon as he had arrived in the main part of town, the question arose of what he was actually going to do while he was there. Racking his brain, Jackson tried to remember what places were open at that point in the day. After a few seconds, Jackson began to make his way to the local bar._

_As he entered the dingy tavern, it took Jackson's eyes a few seconds to adjust to the lack of lighting fixtures. Once they did, he peered around, trying to determine who else was there. Not many people were there that morning, apparently. Besides the bartender, there were two of the town drunks passed out in the corner, a few of the local men playing pool in the center of room, and two unfamiliar men chatting as they sat at the bar counter._

_Meandering towards the tavern's jukebox, Jackson pulled a quarter out of his pocket. After plunking it into the machine and hitting a few buttons, the gentle crooning of a country singer was replaced by the shrill wailing of a rock band._

_One of the local men clapped his hands over his ears, shouting "Turn that crap off!"_

"Make me," Jackson spat back before walking to the bar counter and plopping onto a barstool.

"_I'll have a Guinness," he told the middle-aged bartender, who looked as though he'd like nothing more than to fall asleep right there on the counter. Leaning against the bar counter, Jackson smirked at the freedom with which he could spend his day. There was no nine to five job to bother him, and school was nothing more than a passing concern._

_The bartender, a local man named Tom, sighed. "You're underage."_

_Smiling brashly, Jackson countered by stating, "That's never stopped you before."_

Tom persisted. "You're sixteen, Jackson."

Smile vanishing, Jackson leaned over, telling him coldly, "Give me a beer or I tell your wife that you fucked my mother."

Sighing with a pained expression on his face, Tom nodded weakly as he rummaged among the bottled behind him. Patiently waiting, Jackson looked over at the two strange men speaking in low voices off to the side, listening as best he could to what they were saying.

"…_I know that he doesn't trust me, but for crying out loud, tracking a fucking kid is the pits. He's still treating me like a damn rookie, and I've worked for him for…"_

One of the men seemed to notice that they had attracted Jackson's attention. Making a small sign at his buddy, they both fell silent.

"_Here," said Tom in a dead voice as he plopped the cold beer in front of Jackson. Momentarily distracted from the two men, Jackson reached into his pocket and plunked his money down before grabbing his drink and taking a swig._

_The song on the jukebox ended, and another country ballad began to play. Rolling his eyes, Jackson grabbed another quarter from his pocket and walked over to the jukebox._

_The men playing pool groaned loudly as the sounds of Nirvana filled the room. Jackson merely shrugged. "It's my quarter."_

One of the pool players, a short, stocky man who was balding slightly, shouted drunkenly, "Why do you play that shit? Why can't you just leave our music alone?"

"Because your music is crap," Jackson retorted, folding his arms over his chest.

_The man, who had obviously had quite a lot to drink, seemed to take offense at this. "You bastard!"_

Jackson rolled his eyes, enraging the man even further. Grabbing his billiard stick, he charges towards Jackson like only a drunk man could, stumbling as he went and looking like a complete buffoon.

_Without flinching, Jackson grabbed one of the barstools by its leg and swung it at the charging drunk, hitting him across the side of the head. Surprised, the man teetered for a second before crashing to the ground and promptly passing out._

_Watching his friend's collapse to the ground, the others grew anxious while gathering around him to see if he was alright. One of them, a tall, heavyset man, looked at Jackson angrily. "What the fuck is your problem?"_

Jackson shrugged. "He charged at me."

The man gritted his teeth and rolled up his sleeves. "Kids like you need to be taught a lesson."

"Really now," Jackson said blankly, not even batting an eye.

_Angrily, the large man marched over to him, his face contorted in rage. Jackson just stood there as the older man came closer, his posture relaxed. It was a little bizarre to see: Jackson, the scrawny kid that was barely 5'10", calmly awaiting a 6' man with bulging biceps._

_It was when the larger man was about three feet away that Jackson sprang into action. Hastily grabbing a switchblade from his back pocket, he flicked it open and sliced through the air in front of him. Stunned, the man stumbled backwards, blood beginning to leak out of his throat. Clutching his neck with his hands, the man turned to look at his friends with bulging, pleading eyes as he fell to his knees. His friends, seeing what had happened, rushed over to him, and everything descended into chaos._

"_Joe! Joe, you okay?"_

"Call 911! Somebody call for an ambulance!"

"Joe, can you hear me?"

Jackson watched the proceedings with a dull interest until he felt strong hands grabbing his collar and Tom's angry eyes entered his field of vision.

_A second later, he was being shoved out of the tavern, Tom's voice screaming, "Get out! Get out of my bar and don't come back!"_

Landing with a thud outside the tavern door, Jackson stood up and dusted himself off. Peering around, he walked to the side of the building and sat in the shade provided by its walls. He stayed there and waited for a while, going unnoticed as Joe and his buddy were loaded into an ambulance. As the white vehicle drove away, its sirens blaring, Jackson felt a strange sort of satisfaction with what had happened.

_He was about to get up and head back home when there was suddenly a strange man standing in front of him. Mistaking him for one of the other local men, Jackson threatened, "What, you want to join your two buddies?"_

Chuckling slightly, the man said, "I'm not here to threaten you." Amiably, he held out his hand. "Name's Sal."

Jackson reached out and shook, but he said nothing. Sal, not seeming to care if Jackson gave him his name, crouched down to meet him at eye level and asked, "You're awfully skilled with a knife, aren't you?"

Not sure if he could trust him, Jackson stated emotionlessly, "I guess."

Grinning a little, Sal stated jovially, "You don't need to be modest. You just sent a grown man to the hospital with one swipe of a blade. Hell, if he dies, that means you've committed murder and you only had to swing once."

Coldly, Jackson said, "It was self-defense. He and his buddy came charging at me. They got what was coming to them."

Chuckling as though Jackson had just made a joke, Sale replied, "Right. In any case, I'm willing to bet this wasn't your first time handling a knife, correct?"

"What's it matter to you?"

Speaking in a tone reserved for hush-hush discussions about trading nuclear bombs, Sal responded, "Well, did you know you can make good money with that kind of talent?"

Ears perking up, Jackson replied, "I'm listening."

_Grinning, Sal continued, "What if I told you that I could arrange for you to get paid for little displays of your talent?"_

"How much?" Jackson asked brusquely.

"_Well, it wouldn't be a one-time job. We'd be hiring you like any full-time occupation, and you'd be given assignments throughout the year."_

"But how much would one...'assignment' cost?"

_Smiling, Sal answered, "For your first assignment…how's a thousand dollars sound?"_

Jackson blinked. Quickly performing some mental math, Jackson calculated that Sal was offering him easily five times as much money as his father had in his savings account.

"_And what would I have to do, exactly?"_

When he received no reply for several seconds, Jackson let out a small cackle. "You want me to kill someone, don't you?"

Smiling confidentially, Sal responded, "Does that matter?"

Jackson grinned. "Not really."

Reaching into his pocket, Sal pulled out a small scrap of paper and a pencil. He scribbled something down and then handed the paper to Jackson, saying, "Go to that address at noon tomorrow. I'll explain everything there."

Jackson grabbed the paper and stared at it, saying nothing. Smiling, Sal stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away, vanishing like a specter into thin air.

----------

It was only a few minutes after their encounter on the street corner that Jackson and Jonathan found themselves back in the apartment. Jonathan was wrapping gauze around Jackson's shoulder, Jackson hissing in pain as he did so.

"_Hold still_," Jonathan stated tersely for perhaps the fiftieth time. Jackson, whose shoulder still stung with sharp pain every time the gauze wrapped around it, cried, "That _hurts_!"

"If you'd _hold still_, then maybe it wouldn't hurt as much," Jonathan stated in an irritated fashion. Still aching, Jackson resigned himself and allowed his brother to dress the gash in his shoulder. Jackson comforted himself by looking at the marks across Jonathan's jawbone and neck; even if he had a bloody shoulder to deal with, Jonathan hadn't fared much better.

Jonathan, still applying the gauze, asked abruptly, "You said you needed to hide from your superiors. Is this for a certain amount of time, or indefinitely?"

Jackson, distracted from his shoulder, muttered, "A few months, at most."

Jonathan gave him an incredulous look. "A few months."

Jackson nodded. "Hiding from the cops is easy. I can disguise myself well enough that they won't recognize me as the same man that tried to kill Charles Keefe. And my bosses only have people operating in countries that have or are targeted by terrorists. There's a whole slew of countries that don't fall into either category that I can hide in."

Jonathan, seeming interested, fastened the gauze together with a clip and asked, "Then why wait a few months?"

Rubbing the fresh bandages, Jackson answered, "Because I don't have access to any ways out of the country. The only way I can leave is on a commercial airplane, just like any ordinary person in the country. And to do that, I need a passport and identification. Right now, the only ID I have is for a Jackson Rippner, who everyone and their mother are looking for."

Sitting across from Jackson on a chair he had retrieved from the kitchen, Jonathan inquired, "And how are you going to fix that?"

"I have some loyal contacts left from my assassination days who owe me some favors. I already contacted them, and they're going to forge a whole new identity for me. Birth certificate, Social Security card, college diploma, the whole shebang. But it'll take time to finish the job, so I need to lay low until they're done."

"So, if you have to lay low, why are you here _now_? It's been a few weeks since the Keefe attack, so where have you been hiding?"

There was pause as Jackson held his shoulder and stared at the floor for a few seconds, reluctant to answer. He looked up to see that Jonathan was still watching him expectantly. Sighing, he answered, "I got shot twice. I had to be taken to a hospital where I could bribe a doctor into treating me without taking me to the cops, and pay for treatment in cash. After I was released, I came here."

Pulling on the neckline of his shirt, he yanked it in such a way to show the scars on his chest from where the surgeons were forced to remove the bullets. "Pretty, aren't they?"

Jonathan frowned slightly. "How did you get those?"

"I thought you said you read about it in the paper."

"Refresh my memory, then."

Sighing, Jackson replied, "I screwed up. I was assigned to kill the Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security, and I let a hostage get the best of me. That's how I got those…" He lifted his head up, exposing his neck, "…and this."

Jonathan blanched a little at the small but noticeable scar that lay in on the center of Jackson's throat. "What happened to your neck?"

Smiling ironically, Jackson explained, "I got stabbed with a ballpoint pen."

Giving him an odd look, Jonathan asked, "Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not. Even if you did, I don't feel like telling you."

Shaking his head, Jonathan sat back in his chair. Jackson fixed his shirt, watching as his brother folded his hands together and looked slightly anxious. Folding his arms, Jackson waited until his brother finally managed to speak.

"If you are going to stay here…"

"_If_?" Jackson asked with a bemused smile.

"_If_ you stay here…" Jonathan persisted. "What exactly will you be doing while you're here?"

Jackson shrugged nonchalantly. "There's not much I _can_ do. I'm a wanted man, and seeing as my organization wants me dead, I have to stay out of public view for a while."

Jonathan nodded slightly. "So, if you stay, there won't be any Mafia men visiting here?"

Jackson rolled his eyes. "No, especially since I don't work for the Mafia…"

Jonathan sighed, running his hands through his hair impatiently. "Whatever it is that you do…and I don't want to know what it is, so don't tell me…it won't be brought back here somehow, will it?"

Jackson leaned back on the sofa cushions, lounging casually as the blood seeped into the gauze. "Have someone you need to impress, Scarecrow?"

Ignoring this, Jonathan told him, "Also, you can't stay here for free, you know."

Jackson didn't say anything. He simply crossed his legs and muttered, "Hmm."

Jonathan continued. "I'm going to assume that…whatever it is you do…you've been getting paid for it. I'm not keeping you here as a charity case. I'm going to need some money from you, and you'd better be out of here in a few months."

Jackson shrugged. "Sounds fair. I promise I'll get out of your hair as soon as I can, and you'll never have to deal with me again. And as for the rent, I assume you know that's not a problem."

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

Jackson stared at him for a second before a grin spread across his lips. He let out a small chuckle as Jonathan gave him an odd look. Seeing his brother's confusion, Jackson remarked, "What, you mean I was unconscious all night and you didn't even snoop in my briefcase?" He chuckled. "Scarecrow, your lack of curiosity amazes me."

Walking to the other side of the room, Jackson grabbed his briefcase by its handle and laid it out flat on the floor. Unlocking the clasps, Jackson pushed open the briefcase, revealing nothing more than a few wigs, some contact cases, and a wide variety of stage makeup. Although he seemed slightly surprised by what he saw, it was nothing too odd for Jonathan to really care. That was before Jackson pulled out a false bottom, elaborately latched to the rest of the briefcase. Upon opening it, Jonathan's eyes widened as he saw stack upon stack upon stack of one hundred dollar bills.

"Jackson…" Jonathan asked tentatively, seemingly unsure as to how he was supposed to react. "Where did you get all this money?"

Shutting the briefcase closed with a flourish, Jackson smiled. "Technically, it's not money, if you want to be specific. They're counterfeits, but very elaborate ones. They've got all the security features that a real hundred has: the color changing ink, the face that you see through a bright light, the chemicals that react to detector pens…most banks can't even tell the difference between these and the real deal."

Placing the briefcase on the floor, where it leaned against the wall innocently, Jackson smiled in amusement. "Just one of the perks of working for Iranian oil moguls."

Jonathan couldn't seem to stop looking at the briefcase, his eyes slightly glazed over as he stared. Jackson couldn't help but marvel at the fact that his briefcase probably held more money in it than Jonathan would ever earn in his entire lifetime.

Even if they _were_ counterfeits.

Opening the briefcase again as though he had forgotten something, Jackson pulled out the false bottom once more and grabbed a stack of hundreds. Carelessly, he tossed it at Jonathan, who caught it barely. "There. That should cover me for the next few months, right?"

Jonathan stared at the money in his hands. "There's got to be several thousand dollars here."

"So?"

Jonathan stared at his older brother for a few seconds, not choosing to respond to the question. Eventually, he sighed, pocketing the stack of money in disbelief.

----------

_Defying even his own expectations of himself, Jackson had to struggle internally over whether to meet with Sal again. The prospect of a thousand dollars in his pocket was enticing to his sixteen year-old brain, and it certainly sweetened to pot on the whole deal. Thinking hard, he couldn't honestly remember a time when he'd had an amount of money even close to that._

_But there was also the problem of what Sal was asking him to do. There was little doubt in Jackson's mind as to what the job would entail, and what part he would have to play. Thinking over this, Jackson reasoned with himself that killing a person probably wasn't very different than killing an animal. When it came down to it, humans were really just another species of animal, blundering their way through the world in the hopes that they'd survive long enough to reproduce._

_Besides, he'd been able to effectively slit the throat of the man at the bar. What would stop him from doing the same thing to someone else?_

_  
Still, there was something in the back of Jackson's mind that nagged him, telling him that it would be different than killing a man charging at you with fists clenched. Jackson tried to shake it off. He reminded himself again and again that there was nothing to it, that he shouldn't be worrying so much over it._

_Besides, he could always say 'no'._

_In any case, all these thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind as he made his way towards the address Sal had given him, happily thinking of the thousand dollars that would soon be lining his pockets._

_It was 11:45 AM when Jackson stood outside the local motor inn, its neon sign reminding him that, yes, they DID have vacancies! Never mind that the neon sign was pointless in the middle of the day._

_Scanning the building, Jackson saw that all of the rooms faced outwards, towards the parking lot. Looking down at the directions he'd been given, Jackson read that he needed to go to Room #4080. Scanning the door fronts, his eyes eventually alighted on the correct room. He walked over to it calmly, and, upon reaching it, banged loudly on the door._

_A few seconds later, the door opened, and a tall man peered down at Jackson as though he were a bug. Jackson recognized him as the man that had been with Sal in the bar._

_Attempting to appear casual, Jackson stated gruffly, "Sal told me to meet him."_

Unfazed, the tall man replied, "I know." He stepped out of the doorframe, keeping his eyes on Jackson as he did so. Feeling slightly anxious, Jackson stepped into the dingy motel room.

_Inside, Sal sat on a folding chair, a wide array of papers spread out in front of him. When Jackson entered, he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. As the other man closed the door, Jackson felt a strange sense of foreboding._

_The tall man leaned up against the wall and lit a cigarette while Sal stood up and addressed Jackson. "I'm gonna assume you've been thinking over what we talked about yesterday?"_

Jackson nodded. "You're gonna pay me to kill someone for you, right?"

Sal scratched his chin. "Sort of."

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Sal stuffed his hands in his pockets and stood up to address Jackson. "Did you wonder at all why we might ask a sixteen year-old kid to do something like that, rather than a full grown adult?"

Jackson said nothing, not sure where this conversation was going. Mentally, he calculated how many seconds it would take for him to make a break for the door.

_Sal sighed. The tall man walked away from the wall and stood next to Jackson, looming over him imperiously. Exhaling a puff of ashy smoke, he addressed Jackson calmly._

"We're from an organization that deals with people that have talents like yours. Talents of a…macabre nature."

"Killing people," Jackson uttered dully.

_The tall man smiled. "Bingo. Problem is, our organization doesn't have many people working for it in the United States. Apparently, people aren't nearly as desperate for money around here as in other areas of the world. So we need new recruits. Young people with the skills we need. Kids like you."_

Jackson let this sink in, not sure what to think. "So, when you saw me at the bar, you decided I'd be a good recruit?"

The tall man shook his head, still smiling. "It wasn't a coincidence that we were at that bar at the same time as you."

Jackson blinked. "What?"

Sucking on the end of the cigarette, the man explained, "Our organization's always on the lookout for recruits. So when we found out about you sending that twelve year-old kid to the hospital about a month ago…well, let's just say that we were intrigued."

Sal took over as the tall man continued to make love to his tobacco. "We were assigned to track you for a while to see if you were up to snuff. Most of the time, we saw that you were a pretty sick fuck, but we weren't sure if you were homicidal material. Then you attacked that guy in the bar, and that's when our doubts were erased."

Jackson folded his arms over his chest. "If you were following me this whole time, then what'd you find out?"

Sal chuckled. "Skeptical?"

"Maybe."

"Your name is Jackson Crane. You were born August 13, 1976. Your mother's Selena Crane, age 34, father's Frank Crane, age 36. Your brother's name is Jonathan a.k.a. "Scarecrow", age 14. You live on 1019 Oceanic Boulevard."

Jackson scoffed. "Please. You could find that out in ten minutes from anyone in town. Hell, you could have followed me home from the bar and found that out."

The tall man raised an eyebrow. "You fuck your brother."

Jackson, not having expected this, yelped, "WHAT?"

Calmly, the tall man repeated, "You fuck your brother. You hate your mother more than anyone on this planet, and you don't like your father much better. You've done fucked up things to animals, and you do them routinely. You've got a jar of pigeon's blood sitting on a shelf in your bedroom that you keep mixing with water to keep from congealing. Three days ago, you got beaned across the face with a soccer ball in gym class."

_There was a ten second pause in which this information sunk into Jackson like a weight. Dumbfounded and somewhat embarrassed, Jackson barely managed to mutter, "Shit…"_

_The tall man smiled. "If it's any comfort, with the amount of sick things committed by the members of the organization, screwing a relative seems downright normal."  
_

_Shaking his head a little, Jackson asked numbly, "So what happens if I join this organization of yours?"_

Sal folded his arms over his chest. "We'd be taking you with us to our headquarters in Miami. We'd have to train you, along with the other recruits, until we think you're ready to start working in the field. You get paid a set salary, not counting what you'll get for each assignment you take on. That's where you'll get the majority of your income. Our headquarters are the base of operations for all assignments in the eastern half of the US, so you'd be traveling a lot with other members to do jobs around the country. However…" He paused for a second and walked closer to Jackson. "…you wouldn't see your family again. You'd have to leave them behind and stay in Miami. Essentially, you'd be dead to them."

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "That's a bad thing?"

"That includes your brother as well."

_Jackson shrugged. "I don't want to have to live in Tennessee the rest of my life, living the same crappy life that my father does now. This sounds far more interesting."_

Sal smiled, and the tall man seemed to do so as well behind the haze of his cigarette smoke. Sal clapped his hands together. "Alright then. I guess you're in." The tall man merely muttered, "Point of no return."

_Jackson seemed unfazed, as though it were every day that he made life-altering decisions such as these. However, his heart was pounding and his mind was tumbling over the information he'd been given. There was something exhilarating about the idea that he would be able to say goodbye forever to this crapass town and the crapass people who lived in it._

"_However…" the tall man continued, his deep voice booming through the haze from his cigarette, "…we still need to make sure you're good enough to join."_

Jackson frowned. "I took out the guy in the bar. What else do I need to do?"

Putting out his cigarette in a handy ashtray, the tall man said, "You took him out in broad daylight. That's bad. We need to know you'll be able to do a job without alerting the entire neighborhood."

"So then what exactly do you want me to do?"

Sal reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled photograph and handed it to Jackson. "Her name's Anna Napolitano. Your job is to kill her."

Jackson stared at the photo for a few seconds, imprinting it in his mind. Judging by the fact that she was looking away from the camera, he guessed that it was taken without her knowledge. She had lightly tanned skin and long, dark brown hair that ran down to her waist. Her eyes were a warm mahogany, and her smile was full of crooked teeth. In Jackson's adolescent mind, she reminded him of a stick figure: no tits, no ass.

_Sal continued. "She's seventeen years old, and she's just moved to your town from Vermont. Her uncle's a major player in the mafia in Chicago. The guy doesn't have any kids, so he treats her like a daughter."_

Stuffing Anna's photo into his back pocket, Jackson inquired, "So, this is all to get at him?"

Sal nodded. "He's supposed to draw up a will in a couple of days. Right now, everyone's betting that he'll name Anna his sole heir. That means all the money, all the power of a Mafia don is going to someone who's not even out of high school."

Jackson smirked. "And her relatives aren't happy about that, are they?"

Sal grinned. "You catch on quick, don't you? Yeah, we're waiting for confirmation that her uncle names her his heir. The minute we do, we need her dead." Giving him an almost friendly look, Sal added, "If you do this right, the organization has to pay you for it. My guess is that you could get a thousand dollars for it. Probably more, if you can dispose of the body." 

Jackson shrugged. "Doesn't sound too hard."

The tall man shook his head. "That's where you're wrong."

Reaching into his back pocket, Sal pulled out another photo and handed it to Jackson. It was of a tall, burly man looking rather odd in an expensive-looking suit.

"_Who's he?"_

"Her bodyguard," Sal answered mournfully. "Anna's parents are all too aware of the sensitive position she's in, and they've taken the necessary precautions. The reason they moved to Nowheresville, Tennessee without telling anyone was because they knew that the will was about to be written out, and they knew it would be easier to hide their daughter here. The bodyguard's been trained to protect her with his life, and he'll do it in a heartbeat."

Jackson's stomach sank at the sight of the impressive-looking handgun that the bodyguard was carrying. "Huh."

Sal continued. "We need you to get her to trust you over the next few days. We've been tailing her for the last few weeks, and she's pretty trusting for someone in her position. If you can get her to let down her guard, then getting her away from her bodyguard shouldn't be too hard."

Jackson frowned. "You've been tracking both of us at the same time?"

The tall man raised an eyebrow. "There are two of us, you know."

Sal handed over a stack of papers to Jackson. "This is a copy of all the info we've got on her. Try and use it when you talk to her." Folding his arms, he asked, "Any questions?"

Jackson nodded. "What happens if I fail or I get caught?"

Sal looked to the tall man, who merely shrugged before answering, "You die. Simple as that."  


_The impact of those words hit Jackson hard. Somehow, he seemed stunned that anyone could say something like that so casually, but he refused to show it. He simply flashed a cocky smile and said, "Alright, then."_

----------

Although Jonathan hadn't expected it, somehow, living with your fugitive brother in your apartment could turn into a daily routine, albeit an odd one. It almost seemed like a farce, the way it played out, but nobody seemed to be able to tell that someone was being stowed away in his condo, which was all well for him.

Jackson's presence seemed to barely interfere with Jonathan's day-to-day life: Jonathan continued to go about his usual routine of going to work, dealing with mob bosses, and planning for Gotham's premature apocalypse. Jackson, for his part, seemed to spend his time lounging around Jonathan's apartment, entertaining himself. Jonathan wondered how he didn't get bored, but didn't concern himself with it. That was, until he started to get the sinking feeling that Jackson was starting to sneak out while he was away.

Jonathan didn't have any solid evidence that Jackson was leaving the apartment, but there were signs of it that he couldn't help but notice. He would come home and find things that he didn't remember having before…books, pieces of clothing, random household items. And he would notice Jackson's stage makeup lying around opened, occasionally staining whatever counter it had been left on. Yet Jackson never seemed to run out of concealers, creams, or "spirit gum" (whatever the hell _that_ was).

Of course, whenever he asked Jackson if he'd gone out at all, Jackson would merely smile sweetly and say, "What, me, Scarecrow?"

Eventually, Jonathan confronted him, pointing out that he honestly couldn't remember buying a copy of 'Lord of the Flies', yet there Jackson was, happily reading a hardcover copy.

Jackson had chuckled. "Well, you caught on quickly enough, Scarecrow."

Jonathan groaned. "I thought you said that you needed to stay in hiding."

"I do. But that doesn't mean I need to stay inside all day. Especially if I disguise myself well enough."

Remembering the wigs and the stage makeup that Jackson kept leaving around the apartment, Jonathan sighed. "What if one of the members of your organization sees you? Surely they know what you look like in disguise."

Lounging casually on Jonathan's sofa, Jackson had replied, "They don't have any idea where I am, for the simple reason that they don't know I have a brother. And members of the organization almost never come to Gotham City, anyway."

Jonathan had frowned at this. "Why's that?"

Jackson shrugged. "Out of all the cities in the country, it's the most corrupt, and has the least useful police force. There's little need to hire a professional assassin when you can shoot someone yourself and get away with it."

Jonathan, realizing the truth of this, had mumbled, "Really now."

Opening his book up again, Jackson had added, "Blame it all on Carmine Falcone. Mob bosses like him screw up everything."

Jonathan had let the conversation drop there.

In any event, Jonathan was willing to let the issue of Jackson's outings go. He figured that Jackson must know what he was doing. Even if he didn't, there wasn't much he could do. If Jackson was caught by the police, Jonathan knew that he had enough leverage with Falcone to get out of any blame he might receive. Though if Jackson was caught by his organization…well, there was no telling how that might pan out.

There was very little communication between the two brothers, though that was mostly the fault of Jonathan. Whatever conversations they had were generally initiated by Jackson, usually by saying something sarcastic or bizarre. Jonathan would respond with short, clipped sentences, and Jackson would continue as though Jonathan were the most enthusiastic talker in the world.

Despite allowing Jackson to stay in his apartment, Jonathan still harbored anger towards his brother. Whenever he was forced to deal with Jackson, he couldn't help but remember the feelings of pain and abandonment left over from having his life destroyed in a single evening.

Yet, at the same time, the prospect of having Jackson leave was a dismal one. As much as he hated to admit it, somewhere inside Jonathan was the fourteen year-old that worshipped his big brother and would do anything to keep him near. And after being absent from his life for thirteen years, Jonathan was reluctant to lose Jackson once again.

When he came home at night, he would watch Jackson sometimes with the curious patience of a passerby to a car accident. He felt as though it were a stranger sitting there at times, and other times it felt as though he were merely looking at a mirror image of himself. Jackson confused him, made him question his own emotions, and Jonathan didn't like that. Yet, at the same time, it fascinated him. That was the price of becoming a psychiatrist: he couldn't help but analyze himself.

----------

_Sal offered to drive Jackson home from the motel, and Jackson accepted the chance to be lazy and not have to walk. Besides, he welcomed the opportunity to ask questions without the tall man's imperious presence._

_As they drove down country roads, Jackson turned to Sal and inquired, "Who was that guy? The tall one back in the hotel room?"_

Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, Sal replied, "That's Kevin. He's the head manager over at headquarters."

"Which means what exactly?"

"Basically, it means that he's the boss. There's several ranks within the organization, but he's in charge of everybody on the Eastern seaboard. He's not too bad, really. We've had a ton of bosses in the last eight years, and he's been one of the most easygoing."

Jonathan thought this over. "So then why'd he come here? If he's in charge, he's gotta have better things to do than check out a new recruit."

Sal shook his head. "He didn't come because of you. He came for the Anna case. We weren't even looking for a new recruit when we came here, but we heard about your reputation by chance, so we decided to check you out."

Jackson frowned. "But if Anna's case is so important that the head manager is involved, then why am I the one that's carrying it out?"

Sal turned to glance at him for a second before returning his focus to the road. "Simple. Even though Anna's case is big…and it's one of the biggest we've gotten in a while…we need to get her to trust her killer enough to abandon her bodyguard, remember? A seventeen year-old girl's a thousand times more likely to trust someone her own age than an overly interested adult."

Jackson thought this over and decided it made some sense. Leaning back in the passenger-side seat, he asked, "So how exactly am I supposed to get her to trust me?"

Sal shrugged. "Get her to like you. Be charming. Don't be such a rude little shit. You'll think of something."

The car pulled up in front of Jackson's house. Once it was parked, Sal turned to Jackson with a dead serious expression on his face. "Before you go, just get one thing straight: Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up. If you fail, you're completely screwed. If you get caught, you're still completely screwed. And don't go to the cops, because if you think the Witness Protection Program will save you, you're a damn idiot."

Jackson glared at him coldly. "I won't fuck this up. I'm not stupid."

Sal sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did so. "It's nothing personal, but way too many recruits have chickened out at the last minute, and they end up six feet under." He bit his lip before continuing. "I'll be back in a few days to let you know whether or not her uncle's named her heir. If he has, then you have to kill her. If not, you're off the hook. If you change your mind…just tell me, alright? I'll talk to Kevin, and we'll do it instead, but you don't want to end up dead just because you didn't think this through."

Jackson nodded numbly. "So you were serious when you said that if I fail…"

Sal gave him an icy look devoid of any compassion as he replied, "Find some cyanide."

----------

_According to the packet of information he had received, Anna's moving van wouldn't be arriving until the next day. As such, Jackson lounged around his room, thinking over what he would have to do in only a few hours._

_In an odd way, Jackson was excited by what he was going to do. Dissecting animal cadavers had started to lose its appeal, but the murder of a human being seemed far more challenging. And his reward would be to leave his crappy house and his crappy parents in his crappy town and actually do something. Something exciting. He'd never even been outside Tennessee before, yet he was only a few days away from traveling throughout the US._

_Granted, there was a small part of him that felt bad for leaving Jonathan behind. But he couldn't be his wet nurse forever, and this was too good an opportunity to pass up. His future seemed bleak if he didn't accept Sal's offer, and he knew that it was the sort of business he could thrive in. And Jonathan? Well, he'd have to make it on his own, for once._

_Looking over the information Sal had given him, Jackson was starting to get a good idea of who he was dealing with. Anna Napolitano was basically a young child trapped in the body of a seventeen year-old. She was naïve and trusting, despite her position as a Mafia princess. Her innocence was what made her uncle dote on her. She was a sweet respite for him after running his cruel operations for the mob._

_She was interested in things that Jackson classified as "girly": singing, horses, romantic comedies, etc. She was very sociable, and had left quite a few friends back in Vermont. She was absolutely boy-crazy, and Jackson couldn't help but wonder if he could use that to his advantage._

_Yes, Anna Napolitano would be easy to take care of._

_Just then, Jonathan entered the room, looking pleased and out of breath. Smiling, he told Jackson, "I just scared the hell out a group of girls."_

Jackson blinked, his train of thought lost. "What?"

"There were these girls at my school that kept stealing my backpack and making jokes about me. They even broke my glasses, the bitches. So I decided to make them pay for it tonight. By the way, is it okay if I took that jar of pigeon's blood you were keeping on your shelf?"

Jackson considered this and, after deciding that Sal's offer had put him in too good a mood to get him upset, responded, "It's fine."

Jonathan grinned. "Anyway, they had a sleepover tonight, so I took some of Mom's old china dolls from the attic and smashed them up and left them on their front step covered in the pigeon blood. After they found them, I started popping up at their window wearing all these masks. But I also took a ton of photos of them while I was doing it. After a few hours, I rang their doorbell and left the photos on their front step."

Plopping down on his mattress, Jonathan continued, "The expressions on their faces were priceless."

_Jackson let out a hearty laugh. "Nice job, Scarecrow," he chuckled. "But if it had been me, I'd have set their hair on fire." _

_Jonathan arched an eyebrow. "Well, you never were one for subtlety."_

Jackson shrugged, picking up a dart from his night table and throwing it at the opposite wall. He couldn't help but think of his reputation as "Jack the Ripper" among his classmates, and all of the terrors he'd inflicted upon them to earn that title. "I guess I get it from my namesake." 

_Jonathan laughed. "You mean Mom's great-uncle?" _

_Jackson rolled his eyes. He hadn't realized that Jonathan didn't know about his title. "Of course not. I'm talking about Jack the Ripper, dumbass."_

_Jonathan laughed again. "Right. You're Jack the Ripper." Jackson frowned. "What's so funny?" "You." Jackson threw another dart at the wall, which hit the wall with a satisfying 'thunk'. "You think I couldn't do what Jack the Ripper did?"_

"_Okay, first of all? Jack the Ripper was a holy terror in London. You're just a backwoods hick from Tennessee. Secondly, Jack the Ripper tore apart prostitutes. The worst you've done is take apart the O'Reilly's Doberman. And thirdly? You're name's not Jack, it's Jackson."_

_Jackson shrugged. "Same difference. Jackson's not too far off."_

"_Still, calling yourself Jack isn't going to make you Jack the Ripper."_

_Jackson smiled, throwing his last dart at the wall as he thought about Sal's offer. "I could be, if I wanted to." He thought about Anna Napolitano, probably asleep in some hotel room, eagerly awaiting her arrival in her new house in Tennessee. She didn't know that in only a matter of days, she'd be dead by his hand._

_Jackson's last statement seemed to rattle Jonathan, who pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose as his face developed a nervous look. "Jackson, you're not…you're not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?"  
_

_Jackson said nothing, not wanting to tell Jonathan about what he was about to do, but not wanting to lie, either. Jonathan seemed to look all the more nervous because of his silence. "Jackson, don't think of doing something idiotic just because you think you're tough. We're lucky the neighbors aren't chasing us with pitchforks when their pets go missing…"_

_Jonathan's attitude annoyed Jackson. They'd always been partners in crime before, and it was hypocritical of Jonathan to act so reluctant. Irritated, he snapped, "Oh, like you have any right to complain. I've never seen you give a shit when you're using your kitchen knives out in the woods."_

"_Jackson, it's one thing when we're talking about dogs or cats…"  
_

_Aggravated even further, Jackson interrupted by adding, "Says the guy who just stalked a group of girls for three hours. And borrowed some pigeon's blood to do it, I might add." Jackson rolled over, facing his younger brother. "Since when did you care about other people, Scarecrow?"  
_

"_I'm not worried about the other people, I'm worried about you. You know that if something bad happens, they'll point fingers right at us." Jonathan frowned when Jackson said nothing. "Are you even listening?"_

_Jackson was no longer paying attention to Jonathan, instead letting his mind settle over the idea of never coming back to this house again. He felt like this should upset him, but it really didn't. There weren't any fond memories that he attached to the place, just routines that he followed without thinking._

_Seemingly out of the blue, Jackson asked his younger brother quietly, "What do you want to do when we're older?"_

_Jonathan blinked in bewilderment. "What?"_

"When we get older, when we're out of this house…what do you want to do?"

Jonathan shrugged, and Jackson could see that he didn't have any idea. "We do what Dad does. We work on construction jobs."

_Jackson laughed. "Yeah, right. We're weaklings and you know it. We're just scary weaklings." _

_Jackson envisioned himself like his father, going to work day in and day out at construction jobs that he hated and wasn't even particularly good at. He'd come home every night to a wife that hated him and to kids who were born by accident and who didn't even care whether he lived or died. He wouldn't have friends, simply coworkers that he didn't particularly hate. The closest thing he'd have to a real social life would be the occasional poker game with some people in town, where he'd lose half his paycheck on bad hands._

_Jackson was snapped out of his reverie when Jonathan asked, "Alright, then, what are you planning to do?"_

_Jackson was silent for a moment before replying. "There's a guy I met in town that's offering me a job. A good one, too. It pays really well, and if I can do one assignment alright, then he'll let me work with them full time."  
_

_Jonathan frowned. "What kind of job?"_

"_He said he'll pay me a thousand dollars just do to one thing for him. If I do it right, he might even pay me more…"  
_

"_Yeah, but what is he asking you to do?"_

_Jackson fell silent again. Jonathan would probably have interrogated him further, but the sound of tires squealing alerted them to the fact that their father had arrived home, meaning that they wouldn't be able to talk openly until the morning. Jonathan glanced at his brother, eyes pleading for an answer._

_Jackson merely flashed him a cocky smile, saying, "We'll talk again."_

----------

As Jonathan sat in a plush chair in the heavily adorned office of the most powerful mob boss in the entire city, all he could think to himself was, "Try not to strangle this bastard."

Carmine Falcone had never exactly been renowned for his charming personality or his wonderful social manners. Still, Jonathan couldn't help but wonder how this raving, egomaniacal little man had most of the city under his thumb.

"Mr. Falcone, I am well aware of the pains you have gone to in order to deliver our shipments safely. _However_, you have been more than compensated…"

Falcone slammed his fist against the top of his desk, his face turning red at the prospect of having someone dare to disagree with him.

"Listen, doc. I'm no idiot. I've gotten all your shipments in, no delays, no problems. But if you think that I'm gonna do all that just for you t'toss some coins at me, then we gotta problem."

Jonathan sighed. "If money is the issue, then I can ask that you receive…"

"It's not about the money. I _swim_ in money. Favors are far more interesting."

A rather creepy smile crept across Falcone's face. "Is it so hard for you ta go to a trial and say a few words? You've done it twice already, ya should be an expert by now."

Staring at Falcone sternly, Jonathan replied, "It's not an issue of my willingness to testify. The simple problem is that Mr. Zsasz is not my patient. As such, I can't testify in regards to his mental state."

Falcone waved his hand to show his dismissal of Jonathan's words. "The judge is in my pocket, and so's half the people in the court system. They're not gonna care if you fudge a few facts."

"But the District Attorney's office _will_. I've had the assistant DA on my back since the first time you asked me to testify. She's suspicious."

Falcone nodded a little as he considered this. "Who's Zsasz's doctor?"

Jonathan racked his brain before answering. "Leon Warren."

"Who?"

"He's one of the younger doctors. He just started at Arkham a few weeks ago. Last I checked, he wasn't in your network."

Falcone sighed. "You know where he lives?"

Realizing where this was going, Jonathan hastily added, "I highly doubt that _removing_ him will solve this. The case could still be taken by another doctor."

Arching an eyebrow, Falcone responded harshly, "You're the head 'a that asylum?"

"Yes…"

"And you're his superior?"

"Yes…"

"Then use some persuasion, dammit. Bribe him, threaten him, hell, tell him ya workin' for _me._ But _tonight_, I better hear from you, and I better hear that you found some way to get yourself on that fucking witness stand."

Sighing, Jonathan resigned himself to what Falcone was saying. "I'll see what I can do…"

----------

A half hour later, Jonathan arrived at Arkham, his head still swarming with the commands that Falcone had given him. He knew that, somehow, he was going to have to get Zsasz's case from Leon. If he didn't, Falcone would be pissed, and as much as Jonathan hated to admit it, he couldn't afford for that to happen.

Striding quickly up to his secretary, Jonathan asked, "Do you know where Dr. Warren is?"

Looking up from her Sudoku puzzle, his secretary bit her lip to think. "Mmm, I think he was about to leave actually."

_Shit._ Jonathan walked as quickly as he could to Arkham's staff parking lot, hoping that he would somehow manage to catch the younger doctor before he was out of the building.

Luckily for Jonathan, only a few seconds after he entered the asylum parking lot, Leon Warren emerged from a separate entrance, his hair tied back in a ponytail as his eyes focused on a file that he was flipping through. It wasn't until he had practically bumped into Jonathan that he looked up to see the older doctor.

"Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise. "Hello, there Dr. Crane."

Jonathan nodded. "Hello. Dr. Warren, would it be alright if I spoke to you for a moment?"

Leon blinked. "Of course." He closed his folder and held it under his arm before looking up at Jonathan with intense blue eyes that reminded him uncomfortably of Jackson.

Shaking that thought out of his head, Jonathan addressed Leon. "You've been assigned to Mr. Zsasz's case, correct?"

Leon nodded. "I got his file about a week ago."

"I've been speaking to the Board of Directors, and it seems that Zsasz's lawyer has filed an appeal. They're trying to get a doctor to testify that Zsasz is mentally ill so that he'll be kept at Arkham indefinitely."

Leon winced, surprising Jonathan a little. "They're not going to ask _me_ to do it, are they?"

Sensing an opportunity, Jonathan seized it. "That's what I came to ask you. If you feel confident enough to do it…"

Leon shook his head fervently. "I'd prefer not to. I'm not exactly a public speaker."

Smiling inwardly, Jonathan replied, "Then let me take over his case. I've had to testify at similar trials, so the board won't take issue if I do."

Leon nodded as he walked towards his car, Jonathan following behind him. "Alright then. I'll give you his file tomorrow."

Remembering that Falcone wanted him to report back that night, Jonathan asked, "Actually, would it be a problem if you gave me his file now?"

Fumbling with his car keys, Leon bit his lip. "Hmm…technically, I'm supposed to be leaving right now…"

Looking up at Jonathan, Leon smiled a little bit and said, "Tell you what. As it is, my files are disorganized as all hell. Why don't we go grab some coffee, and I'll just fill you in on Zsasz's progress? Your shift ends now, right?"

"Yes," Jonathan lied, knowing that he could just blurt Falcone's name at the board to excuse any absence he might take.

"Peachy. Here, hop in my car. We'll head to Starbucks or something."

As Leon opened his car door to allow him in, Jonathan felt a twinge of antisocial reluctance. However, he shook it off. He needed to get Zsasz's case, and this was a means to that end. He would have to repress his distaste for social situations if it meant he could accomplish his goal.

Sliding into the passenger seat of Leon's car, Jonathan glanced out the window to see someone standing at the edge of the parking lot. Curious, Jonathan peered at him to see if he could get a good look at him. Peering back at Jonathan was a blond man, his hair containing streaks of gray that betrayed a hint of some age. His dull brown eyes stared at Jonathan, the light wrinkles in his skin suggesting that he was in his later forties or early fifties.

"You all set?" Jonathan practically jumped at Leon's query, and turned to nod at the younger man. Looking back, he tried to get a better glimpse of the strange man. But by the time his eyes rested on the spot where he had stood, the man had vanished like a phantasm.


	6. Long Title, Small Beverage

My writing teacher has decided to give my class an assignment in which he have to write a novel, screenplay, or memoir that is at least fifty pages long. Since I've already written about a hundred pages for this story (frightening, I know), I asked her if I could use this, along with the other chapters I'd be writing. She's agreed, so I basically have to have this story finished within two months.

This means that I have to start working at a faster pace than I have been. Also, I've received comments suggesting that I create shorter chapters for quicker updates, instead of fifty-page behemoths every two weeks. Because of both these things, I'm going to try and chop up what would have been single chapters into thirds and fourths.

The following chapter is only a portion of what would have been one entire chapter. It's six pages long, but it only took a few days to complete, and I really do need to speed up the pace. Expect this pattern to continue: much shorter chapters coming every few days, rather than one bulky one every two weeks.

I hope I can get this done in time. It'll be hard to write it all in only two months. Plus, I have to edit out all the incest for the sake of not destroying the fragile minds of my teacher and classmates.

-----

THE ONE WARNING: There are no warnings. Proceed at your own risk, and bring some garlic and a crucifix.

-----

Disclaimer: Sure I own 'em. Now excuse me while I pry these attorneys off of my kneecaps while removing the bamboo shoots from underneath my fingernails.

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Long Title, Small Beverage_

_It was the morning of December 28th that Jackson walked casually down one of the roads winding its way through the woods. Although he pretended to be merely wandering aimlessly, he was deliberately making his way towards the house into which Anna Napolitano would be moving._

_He had only spoken to Sal and Kevin the day before, so his instructions were clear in his mind. Inwardly, Jackson was anxious to see the girl whom he'd been hired to kill. In a rather morbid way, it fascinated him, the knowledge that it was only a matter of days before the girl's heart beat no longer._

_As he rounded a corner, Jackson could spy a large moving van parked in front of one of the nicer houses in the neighborhood. Various movers were going back and forth with boxes in their arms. Jackson spied a middle-aged couple standing amidst the flurry of activity, and he could only guess that they were Anna's parents._

_Standing off to the side, Jackson watched the hustle and bustle with curious interest, wondering when the object of his malevolence would appear. After only a few seconds of patient waiting, the lanky form of a teenage girl burst through the front door and sprinted happily to the moving van, long hair waving behind her._

Jackson smiled. Anna had made her entrance.

_As the young girl struggled to pick up a large cardboard box, Jackson strolled up to her and asked with faux curiosity, "You new here?"_

Surprised, Anna nearly dropped the box she was carrying before she turned to see who had spoken to her. As soon as she spied Jackson, Anna appeared to relax somewhat, smiling as she replied, "Yeah. My family just got here a half an hour ago." Adjusting the box in her arms, she asked, "Do you live around here?"

Jackson nodded. "Yeah, my house is on the other side of the woods. I didn't even know we had people moving here." With fake concern lacing his voice, he asked, "You want some help with that?"

Anna nodded gratefully and placed the box in Jackson's outstretched arms with relief. "Thanks."

"No problem." Moving his arms underneath the cardboard bottom, Jackson turned to Anna as she grabbed a lighter load. "Where does this go?"

"Um…the den, I think." She made her way towards the house, motioning for Jackson to follow her.

_As they entered the roomy house, Jackson couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. With its high ceilings, spacious rooms, and freshly painted walls, it was easily one of the best-looking houses in the area. He knew that the house would only be occupied by Anna and her parents, yet it was easily twice the size of the rundown shack he shared with three other people. Not to mention nicer and cleaner by a long shot. Yet Anna pranced through it without notice, apparently used to such pleasant abodes._

_As the two of them entered the den area, the boxes landed on the floor with a graceless 'thud', their carriers relieved to be free of their burdens._

_Anna smiled a little as shook out her arms. "So what's your name?"_

Leaning against a bare wall, Jackson answered, "It's Jackson."

Holding out her hand to him, Anna said sweetly, "Mine's Anna."

Shaking her hand warmly, Jackson inwardly laughed. There wasn't anything this girl could tell him that he didn't already know, not her name or anything else. Sal had made her life an open book, so there was little need for formalities.

_In an attempt to appear charming, Jackson asked, "You want me to help move some more boxes?"_

Anna shook her head, insisting, "That's OK. My family and the movers can handle it, and I don't want you to feel like you have to do manual labor for us."

Jackson dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it. It's not a problem."

"You sure?"

Jackson nodded. "Yeah. After all, it's the duty of us strongmen to help out all damsels in distress." To add to this, he flexed his pale, skinny arms to show off his nonexistent biceps. Looking ridiculous, Jackson felt somewhat relieved when Anna giggled a little before laughing outright at his silly gesture.

----------

Only ten minutes after he had climbed awkwardly into Leon's car, Jonathan found himself sitting in a booth at the local Starbucks, sipping a coffee with more adjectives in its name than Jonathan cared to think about.

Sitting across from him was Leon, another long-named drink in his hand. Sipping at their respective beverages quietly, their meeting seemed rather awkward as they said nothing, not even seeming to look at each other.

Finally, after several minutes of uncomfortable silence, Leon attempted to spark conversation when he remarked, "I can't imagine how anyone could work here. Baristas must lose their minds, listening to over-caffeinated customers barking out orders that could fill up half a page. I'd rather deal with lunatics any day of the week."

Jonathan chose not to reply to this, still not entirely thrilled at the idea of being forced to be social. He merely forced a weak smile and went back to sipping his coffee.

Leon noticed Jonathan's lack of enthusiasm, and the air between them became awkward once more. Attempting a different approach, Leon leaned on his elbows and stated, "So…Zsasz. You need to how he's been doing."

Now that they were on the subject he desired to discuss, Jonathan nodded and put down his coffee. "Yes. You said you've had his case for a week?"

Leon nodded. "Yeah. I've been visiting his cell to try to analyze him, but it's been difficult."

Jonathan frowned slightly. "How so?"

Leon gave Jonathan a bit of a helpless smile as he replied, "Zsasz is psychotic. The man is completely bat-shit insane."

Jonathan blinked, surprised. "Really?"

Leon nodded. "I can't imagine how such a blatant psychopath managed to rise so far in the ranks of the mob. Have you seen those marks on his skin?"

Jonathan racked his brain, and recalled the scars that haphazardly marred the man's flesh. "In passing, yes."

Speaking solemnly, Leon said, "Those marks? They're _tallies_. He makes them to keep track of all the people he's ever killed. From what he's told me, he's up to eighty-four."

Jonathan thought over this, wondering why on earth Falcone would place such a high value on someone so irrationally insane. Deciding that it was beyond him to attempt to understand the mob boss's reasoning, Jonathan asked, "What else has he said?"

Leon shrugged. "He rambles. Half of the time, it's just incoherent muttering."

Ripping open a packet of sugar, Jonathan couldn't help but feel some inward glee. "Sounds interesting."

Leon arched his eyebrow. "Really? _Interesting_?"

Jonathan shrugged as he dumped the sugar into his coffee. "We're psychiatrists. Aren't we supposed to find men like Zsasz fascinating?"

Leon chuckled lightly. "Well, we're supposed to find _everyone's_ inner psyche fascinating, even if they're as mediocre as can be."

Stirring his drink, Jonathan remarked, "I suppose that means you've been analyzing me the entire time we've been here."

Leon laughed. "Maybe…just maybe."

"Oh, really? And what deep dark secrets have you discovered?"

"Hmm…"

Leon leaned against his elbows, squinting at Jonathan and scrunching up his face as though focusing intently.

After a few seconds, he stated firmly, "You're a nymphomaniac."

Jonathan stared at him blankly until the younger man let out a loud, barking laugh, forcing Jonathan to smile slightly, even as Leon's laughter subsided into smaller giggles.

Sounding a bit giddy, Leon managed to ask, "You believed me, didn't you?"

Jonathan nodded, admitting, "I thought you were serious."

Grinning, Leon told him, "You always seem to think everything's so serious. At work, you never actually look happy."

Considering how to respond to information he already knew, Jonathan chose to shrug lightly. "We work at an asylum. I suppose it's not the most…_humorous_ line of work."

Pulling out a pack of Capris, Leon murmured, "Yeah, I suppose so." As he reached for a lighter, he asked, "Is it OK with you if I smoke?"

Jonathan nodded. "Go ahead."

As Leon lit up, Jonathan happened to glance out a nearby window. Standing a few feet away from it was the blonde man from the parking lot. Surprised and suspicious, Jonathan shifted in his seat. He observed the man cautiously, and saw that he seemed to have nothing better to do than peer at Jonathan curiously.

Jonathan looked over the man, trying to decide what made the man seem so…familiar. Nothing about his face seemed recognizable, but there was something about the way he carried himself, the casual air with which he lounged. For a few seconds, Jonathan seemed unable to decide what to think, until his eyes rested upon a memorable scar upon the man's throat.

"Oh, for the love of…"

Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Leon asked, "Something wrong?"

Jonathan shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, no, it's nothing…"

Concerned, Leon asked, "You sure?"

"No, I just…I just thought I recognized someone outside."

Leon seemed unsure of how to take this. Inhaling once again from his cigarette, he checked his watch and mentioned, "It's about 6:30. Do you want me to drive you home?"

Jonathan quickly glanced at the window to see that the blonde phantasm had once again disappeared. "Actually, my car is back at Arkham. Do you think you could drop me off there?"

Leon nodded, gathering his things. "Sure, no problem."

Grabbing his coffee, Jonathan followed Leon back to his car, thinking angrily to himself that he was going to throttle Jackson as soon as he could get his hands around his neck.


	7. Romance and Rosaries

I missed House so I could get this out tonight. 'Cuz I'm cool like that.

Well, I've discovered a way that'll force you to examine your writing and the way you view it, and possibly force you to change your views on a story that you once thought was the greatest you'd ever written, albeit violent: show your story to your somewhat prudish writing teacher.

Seriously, she was blushing over the first _page_ in Chapter 2 because of Jackson's endearing terms for the jock's girlfriend (though, to quote one fellow student, "What, you're getting worked up over _that?_"), and she says she felt ill when she read the part about the Exacto knives. And that's only _Chapter Two._ Which is a pretty tame chapter, when you consider the fact that,

a: no one dies

b: no one fucks

c: no one is critically injured

This is worrying me more than it should. And my friend isn't exactly helping by telling everyone in earshot that I'm writing "the gay incest story" (coughSparkofShadowcough).

On the other hand, I now have thirty people who now own shirts that I designed the logo for. Which is pretty neat.

----------

THE ONE WARNING: There are no warnings. I think we've been over this before.

----------

Disclaimer: Who are these Wes Craven and Christopher Nolan people, and why are they attacking me with sledgehammers?

----------

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Some Flirting, and the Improper Use of a Rosary_

_It was only an hour or two after he had first met Anna that Jackson found himself wandering through town with her, wearing the mask of a helpful tour guide as she held his hand uncomfortably, adding a layer of awkwardness to the situation._

_She had been impressed by the chivalry of the kind neighbor boy, grateful for the aid he provided as her family moved into the house. And her parents, watching from afar, had seemed relieved that their daughter could make friends so easily in their new town. The bodyguard had seemed emotionless, watching Jackson in such a way that made him wonder if the man could read minds._

_The presence of a bodyguard had certainly heightened the level of awkwardness. When Jackson had invited Anna on the tour around town, he'd followed them the whole way, not even attempting to appear nonchalant or inconspicuous. He was about seven feet tall, which was more than a little intimidating to the short, scrawny Jackson. Anna hadn't even seemed to notice that he was following them, until Jackson asked her who the giant was that was following them. She had toyed with her hair, glanced away, and mumbled, "That's my uncle Joey. He's kinda protective." _

Hearing her lie outright to him had angered Jackson. The sneaky attitude towards the truth reminded him far too much of his mother, smiling sweetly as she lied through her teeth to her husband and children. This womanly method of deception enraged him to no end. Jackson had almost lost his temper then and there, but the seven foot tall man with the handgun that was twenty feet away deterred him from being rash.

_In any event, as they wandered through town, no one would have suspected that they were anything but a normal teenage boy and girl. No witness to their wandering would have thought that they were a Mafia princess and a newly-hired assassin._

_After passing through the center of town, Anna turned cheerfully to Jackson and asked, "So, what else is around here?" _

Jackson shrugged. "Not that much. There's a shooting range down a bit, but not really anything else." He smiled with faux sheepishness. "It's a small town."

_Anna smiled back. "That's OK. I'm used to small town life." _

Jackson feigned ignorance, asking curiously, "Where are you from?"

Anna rolled here eyes. "Vermont."

Walking slowly towards the woods as naturally as he could manage, Anna right alongside him, Jackson teased her. "Sounds like you highly recommend it."

Glancing behind her to see that her "uncle" was still behind them, Anna replied, "We didn't even really live in a town. We lived in a house in the middle of nowhere, and the closest village had nothing but a grocery market and a few craft stores."

"Sounds fascinating."

As he led Anna past the fringe and into the area dense with trees, Jackson couldn't help but feel that he was leading Anna and "Uncle Joey" into home territory. He and Jonathan had memorized these woods together, turning it into their kingdom for the taking. Anna and her guardian were merely lost children, their eyes blinded as they made their way throughout an unfamiliar realm. It gave him a strong upper hand, and he knew he could use it to his advantage.

_Turning to Anna, Jackson grinned mischievously. "You see that stream up ahead?" _

Anna looked to see said stream about a hundred yards in front of them, past dozens of tree trunks and sprays of foliage. "Yeah…"

"Race ya!" And with that, Jackson was off, dodging trees like an expert as his long legs carried him nimbly through the all too familiar territory.

"_Hey!" Jackson heard a loud crunching of dead leaves as Anna started off, and it was only a second or so later that Jackson saw her enter his field of vision before overtaking him as they dashed past the thick tree trunks._

_Anna reached the stream first, with Jackson arriving a mere second later. Laughing, Anna declared, "I won!" before her legs gave out. Jackson tried to catch her as she gracelessly collapsed, but he was only dragged down with her, and they landed awkwardly on the stream bank._

_Giggling, Anna leaned on Jackson as she sat up. While she did so, Jackson glanced back to see "Uncle Joey" bumbling his way through the trees, slowly progressing towards them._

_Jackson grinned. This might not be so hard after all. Part of him was disappointed that he needed Sal's say-so to do the job. With adrenaline coursing through him, he felt like he could take on a thousand Mafia princesses._

_And Anna seemed to trust him. Behind those sickly-sweet doe eyes she made at him, she genuinely seemed to like him. Hell, she liked him enough to put herself at risk. She'd endangered herself by allowing him to lure her out of the firing range of her bodyguard for a childish footrace._

…_what a stupid girl._

_Standing up, Jackson said, "C'mon, let's keep walking." _

Anna nodded, still catching her breath. Holding out her breath, she implored him, "Help me up."

Jackson complied, grabbing her wrist and yanking her upwards. Unfortunately, Anna's legs hadn't quite recovered from their footrace. As soon as she was upright, she leaned on Jackson for support. Unfortunately, Jackson hadn't expected this, causing them both to fall backwards into the stream with a tremendous splash.

----------

Jonathan watched as Leon drove away from the Arkham parking lot, the car seeming to grow smaller as it made its way through the side streets of the Narrows. There was a strange look on his face as he watched him go, unreadable to an observer. However, considering the way the muscle in his jaw kept tightening, someone could easily assume that he was rather pissed off at someone or something.

As soon as Leon's vehicle had disappeared from sight, Jonathan stormed through the parking lot. When he reached his car, he flung open the door and slid into the driver's seat without a glance at anything but what lay directly in front of his eyes. After shutting the door behind him, he gripped the steering wheel tightly in what appeared to be an attempt to calm himself down. Gritting his teeth slightly, and without turning his head, Jonathan muttered, "Hello, Jackson."

Cheerfully, Jackson replied, "Greetings, Scarecrow," noting the fact that his brother refused to look anywhere but directly forward. Something told him that Jonathan had been a bit surprised by his appearances.

Looking in the rearview mirror, Jonathan glanced over his now wig-less, contact-less, wrinkle-free brother. Biting his lip in irritation, Jonathan remarked, "You're looking much younger since last I saw you."

"Really now? And how so?"

"Well, I suppose that the complete lack of wrinkles would help. Not to mention losing the blonde wig and the contacts."

Jackson chuckled lightheartedly. "What gave me away?"

"The scar on your throat."

The smile on Jackson's lips vanished, though he tried his best to appear unfazed. Running his thumb over the bright mark, he replied calmly, "I guess I'll have to work on that."

"And why, may I ask, do you feel the need to follow me in the first place?" Jonathan asked, impatience mounting in his voice.

Jackson shrugged casually. "I wanted to check up on you, Scarecrow. See what little brother's been up to all these years."

"And why would you want to do that?"

Once again, a grin played across Jackson's face as he leaned back and crossed his legs. "Curiosity. And a complete lack of any kind of schedule. You'd be amazed by the amount of free time a person can have in one day."

Starting the engine and putting the car in drive, Jonathan merely answered sardonically, "Really now."

The playful, malevolent grin still upon his face, Jackson waited until the car was driving down the back roads of Gotham before inquiring loudly, "So who's your boyfriend?"

Although Jonathan refused to dignify the question with a response, Jackson could tell by the way he cringed slightly that he'd touched upon a sore subject.

"No reply, Scarecrow? Or are you embarrassed?"

Calmly and emotionlessly, Jonathan answered, "He's a coworker. We went out to discuss a patient's case."

Lying down causally across the backseat, Jackson said, "Sure, that's it."

"He's a _colleague_. Surely, you'd have noticed that if you've been following me around Arkham." Jonathan stared icily at his brother through the rearview mirror, venom lacing his words as he added, "Or are you just jealous, perhaps?"

"What, that I don't have a boyfriend like yours?"

"You know that's not what I mean."

When Jackson gave no reply for several seconds, Jonathan checked the rearview mirror to look at him. However, the way that Jackson lay across the backseat, his face was blocked by the passenger-side chair. Eventually, though, a reply arose, the words phrased coldly and sardonically.

"I wouldn't attach too much significance to us, Scarecrow."

Jonathan let it drop there, not wanting to continue with that line of conversation. Instead, he returned to their previous topic of discussion. "I don't want you following me anymore. And if you're feeling rebellious, I'll remind that I can always kick you out."

With a loud sigh, Jackson answered, "If you insist. You're worried that I'll stumble in on you and _Dr. Warren_ again?"

Trying to keep his cool as best he could, Jonathan stated calmly, "We're meeting again tomorrow to finish discussing a patient. We'd have done so today, but your little intrusion cut us short."

It was unfortunate that Jonathan could not see Jackson's face through the mirror, as he would have wanted to see the interesting expression he wore when he heard that last piece of news.

----------

_After their graceless fall into the stream, Anna and Jackson had quite a time trying to get to shore. Luckily for them, the stream was shallow and slow-moving, decreasing the difficulty of their journey. After a few minutes of splashing, they managed to climb back onshore with a minimal amount of struggle. After that, they had been forced to walk back into town dripping wet. Part of Jackson's sixteen year-old mind had hoped that certain aspects of Anna's anatomy would be a bit more visible as a result, but her padded sports bra dashed these particular dreams._

_In any event, the two had a good laugh about it as they made their way back to Anna's house. Or, rather, Anna had a good laugh while Jackson barked out forced chuckles as he inwardly bitched about the fact that he'd managed to fall into a cold stream in December right before nightfall._

_Not to mention that "Uncle Joey" was now hot on their tail once again. He hadn't arrived quickly enough to be of any help when they fell in the stream, but once they emerged, he didn't let them out of his sight for a second. His intimidating presence annoyed Jackson, furthering his irritation over the events of the evening._

_As the sun set, they continued their travels in the direction of the Napolitano house. Neither of them was wearing a jacket, so they both shivered badly. Jackson kept his focus on trying to appear amiable, while Anna merely made jokes as she played with a tiny plastic necklace around her neck._

_After watching her toy with the band around her neck for several minutes, Jackson asked her abruptly, "What is that, anyway?" _

Anna stopped her toying and blinked, surprised. "What?"

"That necklace. What is it?"

Anna stared down at the beads between her fingers and smiled a little. "It's a rosary. My uncle gave it to me."

Glancing behind them, Jackson said, "You mean the one fifty feet behind us?"

Anna laughed a little. "No, another one. My uncle Tony. He lives in Chicago, so I don't see him very much."

Jackson vaguely remembered Sal's words about Anna's mafia boss uncle living in Chicago, and he realized that she was referring to the man who might be responsible for her death in a few days time. It put him in a slightly morbid mood, so he shoved those thoughts out of his head.

_Anna continued, the beads pressed tightly into her palm. "When I was seven and I had my first Communion, Uncle Tony pulled me aside in the church and gave these to me. He told me, 'Anna, I love you, and I want you to stay safe. But I won't always be there to watch you, so I want you to have this rosary.'"_

_Running her fingers over the tiny figurine of Christ on the crucifix portion of the string of beads, Anna murmured, "He told me that if anyone ever tried to hurt me, it would send an angel to protect me." She smiled. "And if the angel doesn't work, he said that a devil will come and kill whoever hurts me." _

Jackson smiled grimly, processing the information she had given him. "Sounds like your uncle cares about you."

Anna nodded. "He does." Looking up at the road in front of them, a look of disappointment came across her face as she saw her house only a few yards away.

_Relieved, Jackson said, "Now that you're home, I suppose I'd better get back to my house and dry up." _

Anna nodded, looking at Jackson longingly. "Okay." She paused for a second, biting her lip. Jackson merely stood there, waiting for her to say something, until he was suddenly greeted by Anna's lips planted firmly on his own.

_Half a second later, Anna was running towards her front door as fast as she could, cheeks burning with embarrassment as her legs sped her away._

_Jackson merely stood there and shook his head for a second, ultimately deciding that the female gender was positively insane._

_Walking back to his house, he pored over the events of the day, trying to figure out a plan for when the time came to do the deed. He knew for sure now that she liked him, and that she'd trust him enough to ditch her bodyguard, if only for a few seconds. That was all he'd need to do what was necessary._

_Outside of his house, a beaten-up Jeep was parked by the curb. Jackson gazed at it for a moment, recognizing it and realizing its significance. Glancing around, he tried to spy a familiar figure, and it was only a few seconds before he spotted a man sitting off to the side of his house, sipping at a bottle of beer as he sat in the grass._

_Approaching him, Jackson wore a blank, cold expression as he muttered, "Hey, Sal."  
_


	8. It Can Never Be the Same Again

Well, I wanted to get this out before Easter, and it seems I have succeeded. Whoop!

My writing teacher seemed surprised to discover that I was planning on editing some of the more racy parts of the story out for her benefit, so now I'm not so sure whether I should or not. I think what I'll probably do is print out an edited version and the regular version, and giver her the option of reading either. I've got all of spring break to work on it. Besides, I think she might choose the edited version, for the simple reason that "I think one of your stories will make me throw up someday".

Anyway, this chapter is going to be longer than the last two were, for the simple reason that this is probably one of the more important chapters in the story (for reasons I'm sure you can guess). I probably could have cut out the last part and turned it into a separate chapter, but I kind of like having it attached to the rest, so I kept it.

Also, the majority of this chapter is going to be a flashback. There is one scene that's set in present day, but the rest of it takes place wholly in the past.

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THE ONE WARNING: I do not give warnings. Don't be lulled by the fact that the last few chapters have been fairly tame. The worst is yet to come, and this is the point where it gets twisted again. And trust me, it ain't pretty.

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Disclaimer: Am being kept prisoner in Dreamworks' and Warner Brothers' evil lair. SEND FOOD.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_It Can Never Be the Same Again_

_Sal nodded a greeting to Jackson, taking a sip from his beer as he held the neck of the bottle in his fist. Jackson stood over the older man, hands stuffed in his pocket as he awaited the inevitable news._

_Remaining in his seated position on the grass, Sal put down his beer and looked up at Jackson. "Our contact called a half-hour ago. Anna's uncle signed the will earlier than expected."_

"And what's it say?"

Sal sighed. "Anna's his heir, just like we figured. Title, money, property, everything."

_Jackson ruminated on this as Sal stood up and brushed himself off. "So it's definite, then?"_

Sal nodded. "Yep. You gotta kill her."

Jackson shrugged casually. "Alright. I'll invite her out tomorrow, and then…"

"No." Jackson was slightly stunned by the bluntness of Sal's refusal. "Tonight. You need to do it now."

Still taken aback, Jackson asked, "Why?"

Stuffing his hands into his coast pockets, Sal replied, "There has to be no doubt in anyone's mind that her death was because of the will. Our client made it very clear that Anna must be killed within two hours of the signing."

Jackson ran his fingers through his hair, a headache beginning to form. "Shit."

Sal chuckled. "Yeah, no kidding."

Taking his right hand of his coat pocket, Sal revealed a small, black pistol. "You ever use a gun before?"

Remembering times when he and Jonathan had stolen their dad's old hunting rifle, Jackson nodded, "Yeah."

"Good. If you have to, use that to get the job done. But remember…" Sal's eyes went cold as he added emphatically, "Don't. Get. Caught."

Taking the gun, Jackson stated confidently, "I won't."

Sal's eyes glanced over Jackson's face and, appearing satisfied, answered, "Alright."

Tucking the pistol into his waistband, Jackson felt a surge of empowerment, but it was tinged with a sense of foreboding that he couldn't shake.

_Sal gave Jackson a confidential look, all humor erased from his face as he stepped forward. "You're ready to do this? No turning back?"_

_Eyes filled with an icy chill, Jackson replied, "That bitch is as good as dead."_

-----

_As Jackson made his way through the woods between his house and Anna's, the sun had sunk completely out of sight, and the moon hung low in the sky. He dragged a ladder with him, the heavy wooden instrument clunking behind him. As he treaded along, he gritted his teeth over the strain to his arms, forcing himself to remember that the ladder was necessary for his plan to work._

_As the Napolitano household came into view, Jackson felt a surge of relief. When he reached the side of the house, Jackson set up the ladder against the wall so that it ended only a foot or two under the window to Anna's room, the location of which he'd discovered while helping her move boxes that morning._

_He climbed up slowly, not wanting to make any noise that might alert Anna's parents, or, even worse, "Uncle Joey". When he reached the top, he breathed a sigh of relief for the simple reason that he'd managed so far to not get caught. Some small part of his mind was incessantly paranoid, fearing that Anna's bodyguard would jump out of nowhere and shoot him, perhaps with Sal and Kevin's aid. He tried to ignore these thoughts, but it didn't stop his heart from pounding much faster than normal._

_Rapping lightly against the window, Jackson hissed, "Anna!" When no reply came, he rapped a little harder, continuing to call her name._

_After a few seconds' pause, Anna came to the window in a T-shirt and flannel pajama pants. She shoved the glass pane upwards and peered out of the gaping hole it left behind. It took her a few seconds to spot Jackson's face below the window, and when she did, she jumped in surprise._

"_Jackson, what're you doing here?"_

_Resting his elbows on the top of the ladder, Jackson responded coolly, "I came to see you."_

Although it was obvious that she was flattered, Anna shook her head a little as she whispered, "My parents are downstairs. They'll hear you."

Jackson remained unfazed. "That doesn't matter. I want to show you something."

Anna leaned on the windowsill, her face not far from Jackson's own. "They'll notice if I'm gone."

Jackson bit his lip, having assumed that she'd go along without trouble. Deciding to up his game, he leaned up and kissed her on the cheek, letting his lips linger there.

"_Please?" he asked sweetly._

Anna's cheeks flushed a bright red, and Jackson knew that she was sold. Pretending to still consider the idea, Anna smiled and wondered, "What do you want to show me?"

Jackson smirked and shook his head. "Can't tell you. That'd ruin the surprise."

Anna bit her lip, then grinned. "Let me get my shoes on."

_Jackson waited patiently on the ladder rungs as Anna produced a pair of sneakers from her closet and proceeded to put them on. Once she had done so, she returned to the windowsill._

"_What now?" she asked coyly._

_Stepping down the ladder, Jackson instructed her, "Follow me."_

Seeing the ladder, Anna momentarily shrunk back. "What if I fall?"

Annoyed, Jackson attempted to put on his sweetest, most convincing smile. "I promise I'll catch you."

Hesitating for a minute, Anna gingerly climbed onto her windowsill before lowering herself onto the ladder. Turning around to face the ladder rungs, she gripped the sides of the wooden ladder tightly as she slo-o-owly climbed down the ladder rungs, Jackson having reached the ground within ten seconds.

_When she finally made it to the bottom and off of the ladder, Jackson asked her, "There, was that so bad?" Anna gave him a look as though he'd asked whether the sky was blue or the grass was green._

_Ignoring the expression on her face, Jackson asked, "Shall we?" before walking off towards the woods, Anna following directly behind him, unaccompanied by "Uncle Joey", to Jackson's delight._

_As they wandered their way through the foliage, Jackson felt his left pocket. Sure enough, his switchblade was right where it was supposed to be. And the feeling of cold metal against his lower back reminded him that Sal's pistol was still tucked into his waistband, hidden from view by the long T-shirt and jacket._

_Looking over at Anna, Jackson noticed that, unlike him, she wasn't wearing any sort of jacket over her flimsy T-shirt. "You cold?" he inquired._

_She shook her head. "Nah."_

"You sure? It's December, it's nighttime, and all you're wearing is a T-shirt."

_Anna nodded. "Trust me, this is nothing. Once you've lived through February in Vermont, nothing seems cold anymore, especially once you're down south."  
_

_Jackson chuckled a little. "So that's why you're dressed so lightly?"_

"Exactly! I mean, I'm used to positively freezing temperatures in the winter, but it's not that cold here. But everyone's still dressed up like there's a blizzard going on!"

Curious, Jackson asked, "Have you seen a lot of blizzards?"

Anna nodded. "Yeah, why?"

Frowning a little, Jackson replied, "…I don't think I've ever seen snow before. At least, if I did, I've forgotten."

Anna seemed absolutely horrified, as though this were the most terrible thing she could imagine happening to a fellow human being. "Oh, that's sad!"

_Jackson laughed a little. "Yeah, I'm a deprived child."_

The trees around them were beginning to grow scarcer, and Jackson could see in the near distance the point where they actually stopped. Grabbing Anna's wrist, he led her the last several yards, until they stood in front of the location he'd been leading her to this whole time.

"_Well," Jackson murmured, "we're here."_

Anna gaped. Jackson had led to a pond located in the middle of the forest, a haven for the fishers and swimmers in town. It was one of the prettier sights in the area, and the way the moonlight glinted off its surface, it had an almost ethereal quality to it. He and Jonathan had discovered it when they were little one afternoon, and had visited many times since.

"_Jackson…it's so pretty!" Anna squealed. Jackson smiled. "I thought you'd like it. It's one of the more scenic parts of town, and it always looks best in the moonlight."_

_Delighted, Anna ran down the water's surface, crouching at the edge before running her fingers through the lake's liquid contents. Jackson said nothing, reaching into his left pocket to retrieve his switchblade before silently walking towards Anna._

_Anna stood up, still facing the water. Her delight clearly written on her face, she turned to Jackson, her mouth open as though to speak. She never had the chance. Jackson's arm moved swiftly, and the blade slit her neck with ease._

_Eyes wide, Anna fell backwards as blood poured out of her neck, running in rivulets over her rosary and onto her T-shirt. Jackson, grateful to be finally rid of his façade, grabbed Anna's hair and began to drag her closer to the lake before flipping her over and pushing her head beneath the surface._

_After a few seconds, he lifted her head to see if she was still alive. As soon as he did so, she began to kick and flail with what little strength she had. Surprised, Jackson dropped her, and Anna scrambled for shore, blood still oozing out of her throat._

_Snapping out of it, Jackson pounced on her from where he stood. "Stop fighting, dammit!" He twisted her around so that she lay on her back, and he could see by the way her chest was heaving that she was sobbing. Slapping her across the face several times in a row, Jackson hissed, "Quit trying to run. In three minutes, you're dead."_

At this, Anna seemed to sob even harder, her mouth trying to form words that never escaped her lips. Having no sympathy for her whatsoever, Jackson sarcastically began to mock her. "Aw, does Anna have a boo-boo on her neck? Is that what it is? Want me to kiss it and make it all better?" Slapping her across the face once again, Jackson shrieked, "Is that what you want, you dirty whore?"

_Not caring that Anna wasn't even dead yet, Jackson pulled a ball of twine out of his back pocket and began to unravel some. He planned to tie up Anna's wrists and ankles before dumping her into the lake. Even if she were to float to the top, the soonest she'd be discovered would be early the next morning, when some of the old men in town went fishing. By then, he'd be long gone._

_But paranoia took over when a loud rustling came from about thirty feet away, accompanied by footsteps and low chattering. Jackson panicked, Sal's words echoing in his head. The prospect of having Sal and Kevin dispose of him seemed unappealing, to say the least, so he needed to get out of there._

_Discarding the twine, Jackson picked up Anna and slung her over his shoulder as her breaths rattled through her lungs. She seemed to be in her last throes, but she had given up. She didn't even try to fight back as he jogged through the woods, carrying her the whole way._

_As he went further into the woods, Jackson's heart beat rapidly as he started to panic. Where could he go? He didn't want to risk going back to the lake, but how would he dispose of Anna?  
_

_His house. Jonathan. Jonathan would help him._

_Jackson racked his brain, trying to remember when his father was coming home. A half-hour, at the earliest. Jackson decided that heading home was his best option, and he made his way in the direction of his house, Anna weeping quietly over his shoulder._

-----

_As he headed out of the heart of the woods and closer to the fringe, Jackson's arms grew tired. Deciding that he was close enough to his house, he unceremoniously dumped Anna on the ground to see if she had actually died yet. Sure enough, she had finally given up the ghost, her face frozen and her eyes wide with terror._

_Glancing over her corpse, Jackson felt a surge of realization. She was dead. She was actually, finally, irreversibly dead. A wave of emotions accompanied this revelation, and Jackson couldn't decide whether he felt exhilarated or sick._

_Pushing these thoughts aside for the moment, Jackson reached down and grabbed a handful of leaved before scattering them across Anna's body. It was an amateurish attempt at covering her, to be sure, but he wanted her to be hidden somehow while he fetched Jonathan._

_After a few more handfuls of leaves, Jackson turned towards the house and began to run. Pumping his legs as quickly as he could, Jackson tried to think. He needed to get rid of the body. Jonathan would help him, but they had to do something with the body. With very few options presenting themselves, Jackson decided that they'd simply have to bury her._

_When he reached the house, he rapped loudly on his bedroom window, panting heavily. Anxiously hoping that Jonathan wasn't asleep, Jackson waited several seconds before Jonathan's face appeared at the window, looking concerned and confused. Upon seeing his older brother, Jonathan blinked in surprise before dashing to the backdoor. In the interim, Jackson leaned against the house, trying his best to catch his breath._

_When Jonathan appeared in the backyard, he was taken aback by Jackson's harried appearance, as well as the blood staining his clothing. Stammering and surprised, Jonathan asked, "Where the hell have you been? What the hell is going on?"_

Still tired and out of breath, Jackson managed to wheeze, "No time…to explain…I ran…as fast as I could…" Waving his hand in the general direction of the woods, Jackson continued, "You have…to help me…bury her…"

Perplexed and frightened, Jonathan shrieked, "Bury who? What the hell are you talking about?"

Not knowing quite how to respond yet, and his limbs still screaming in agony, Jackson grabbed Jonathan by the shoulders in a desperate attempt to appear in control. "Jonathan…don't ask questions. You just…just help me out, okay?"

Jonathan's eyes scanned Jackson's face, desperate for some kind of reassurance. When he found none, he swallowed hard. "O-okay."

Grabbing Jonathan's hand, Jackson led him back to Anna, not sure how to explain any of this to his younger brother. As they neared the corpse, Jackson decided that Anna would probably be able to explain things better than he ever could.

_As he cleared the leaves off of the still warm carcass, Jackson noted the horror on Jonathan's face, the blood draining out of his face._

"_Jackson, you…you didn't…"_

_Jackson remained silent, but he knew that he looked as guilty as could be. He had her blood all over his clothing, for crying out loud. There really wasn't much to say._

"_Jackson…why-"_

_Coldly, Jackson explained, "I told you that a guy offered me a job. He offered me a thousand dollars to kill her for him." He didn't look at Jonathan as he said this, instead choosing to stare at the rosary lying askew around Anna's neck. The plastic beads lay haphazardly, the string connecting them stained red by Anna's blood. The crucifix portion lay helplessly by Anna's side, unable to do anything to save its wearer or itself. _

_Inwardly, some sick, twisted part if him wanted to laugh. She'd thought an angel would come to save her, just like her uncle had told her. Well, her uncle was wrong. And what was the other part she'd said? That a devil would come to avenge her?_

"Let's see your devil get me now," _Jackson thought as he glanced towards Jonathan. Reaching down, Jackson grabbed Anna's corpse by the arms as he instructed Jonathan, "Help me bring her to the backyard. We can bury her there."_

Jonathan nodded weakly, then grabbed Anna by the legs. They managed to make it back to their yard in a few minutes, Anna's bloody cadaver swinging between them the whole way.

-----

_It wasn't very long after this exchange that Jackson found himself standing over three dead bodies: Anna's, and his parents'. Not exactly how he'd figured the night would end._

_Dragging his father's heavy corpse into the house, Jackson couldn't help but feel somewhat overwhelmed. He honestly hadn't expected to see his parents home so soon. It had been instinct, really, that made him pull out the gun. He's needed to get rid of his father, and he had. Simple as that._

_Propping the body so that it lay on the couch, Jackson wondered what went through his father's head when he saw his two sons standing over Anna's carcass. Had it finally sunk in that his boys were dangerous, violent people for one single moment before he died? Or had he inwardly clung to the hope that there was some innocent explanation for it all, just as he had all his life?  
_

_Jackson went back outside and began dragging his mother by her wrists into the house. He'd put her in her room, splayed on the mattress as she usually was when she was home. Nothing too unusual, save the bullets riddled throughout her body._

_Inwardly, Jackson couldn't figure out whether his mother's death made him happy or upset. On the one hand, the bitch was finally dead. That fucking whore had gotten her just desserts, and would never be able to satisfy any man's desires. Unless he was a necrophiliac. But still, her days of adultery were over once and for all._

_On the other hand…it had been Jonathan who'd done it. Jonathan. Jackson had wanted for so long to see his mother suffer, and when it had finally happened, it had been delivered at the hands of his brother. His brother._

_To be perfectly honest, Jonathan's actions that night had surprised him. He'd always known that Jonathan was a capable psychopath, but he didn't know if he had it in him to kill a fellow human being. When Jackson had first heard his mother begin to scream, his first instinct had been to rip the gun out of Jonathan's hands and riddle her with as many bullets as the tiny pistol would allow. When he'd turned to see his brother shooting their mother, he'd been shocked._

_It had played out before Jackson's eyes like a tape in slow motion, the way the bullets had entered her body. First there was one to the thigh, sending her to the ground. Then one to the shoulder. Then to the chest and, finally, one to the face, silencing her forever._

_After dumping his mother on her mattress, Jackson went back outside to retrieve Anna, who was still sprawled on the grass in the backyard. He smirked a little as he carried her in his arms towards the house, glad that her annoying voice would never ring in his head again. She was like his mother in ways that enraged him. She'd lied outright to him about her bodyguard, the same way his mother deceived his father. And if she'd kissed a boy she'd only met that morning, who was to say that she wasn't a slut who'd invite any man to bed with her? Come to think of it, she probably would, wouldn't she? Perhaps if Sal hadn't come when he did, she would have tried to seduce him._

_As he entered his room, bearing Anna's body in his arms, Jackson wondered if all women were lying whores._

_Gracelessly, Jackson dumped Anna onto his mattress, her limbs flailed haphazardly across his bed. Some part of Jackson wanted to laugh. The first girl he'd ever gotten in his bed, and she was a corpse._

_He made a move to leave the room, but paused when he reached the doorway. Going back, he removed the rosary from Anna's neck quietly and then stuffed it into his pocket._

_As he made his way back to his father's tool shed, Jackson reviewed how the house would appear when the firemen came to douse the blaze. One body in his parents' bed, one in his, and one on the couch. With Jonathan wandering out in the woods, it would be easy for them to figure that it was the bodies of Frank, Selena, and Jackson Crane. Picking up a can of gasoline, Jackson grinned. If he doused enough gas on the bodies, they should be unrecognizable by the time they reached the morgue._

_It took only a few minutes to completely cover the house with gasoline. Jackson took extra care to cover Anna with the stuff, so there'd be no question as to the identity of the teenager-sized body. After retrieving a pack of matches from his mother's purse, Jackson stood at the front door of his house and looked at it for the last time. Without a single feeling of regret or grief, Jackson lit the match and tossed it into the puddle of gasoline lying only a few feet away._

_And without looking back, he ran._

-----

When they'd gotten back to Jonathan's apartment, the two brothers avoided each other for the rest of the evening. Even in a four room apartment like Jonathan's, it really wasn't that difficult. Jackson stayed on the couch in the den, reading some novel or another, while Jonathan went into his room to work on some of his case files. At one point, he went out to the kitchen to grab something to eat, bypassing Jackson along the way. The two said nothing, and it seemed to go unnoticed that Jonathan left half a sandwich out on the kitchen table. When Jonathan returned later that night, though, he found the sandwich gone and Jackson asleep.

It had been about midnight when Jonathan wandered into the living room. He hadn't come under any pretense, but some small part of him just wanted to go. When he did, he wasn't surprised to see Jackson lying asleep on the couch, as he had every night since he'd arrived. But what did surprise him, just as it surprised him every time he stumbled upon the sleeping Jackson, was the innocent expression he seemed to wear as he slept.

How was it possible that a man with so much blood on his hands could seem like a child while sleeping? Jonathan could testify that he'd murdered at least two people. And if it was true that he was an assassin, then there must be dozens upon dozens of deaths on his hands. He was cruel, he was manipulative, he was selfish. Hell, he was a regular Lady Macbeth, and Jonathan need only close his eyes to see a stream of blood descending from his palms and winding around his wrists.

Yet he seemed almost like a child now, and Jonathan couldn't imagine what made him look like one.

The eyes. That was it. As he lay sleeping, those chilly blue eyes remained closed, and no one could see the frightening power and malevolence that they held. They were weapons in and of themselves, and they held a hypnotic power over anyone they dared to set their focus on. Jonathan knew it better than anyone else; he'd seen their influence at work for his first fourteen years of life.

Some part of Jonathan was curious as to what exactly Jackson had been doing for those thirteen years that they had been separated. He knew that he'd become an assassin, but that was about it. Where did he go? Who did he work for? What kind of people did he kill? Where did he get that briefcase full of money? These questions swam around in his head, but he didn't dare ask. If he did, Jackson would feel entitled to pry into what _he'd_ been up to, which might lead to discoveries concerning a certain Henri Ducard and Carmine Falcone. And he couldn't allow that to happen, not when things were going so well for Ra's Al Ghul's plan.

Still, this didn't quench his curiosity towards his brother.

Spying a small, leather item on his coffee table, Jonathan furrowed his brow and picked it up. It was a wallet, with the initials 'JR' inscribed on it. Jonathan rolled his eyes. Once again with this "Jackson Rippner" shit.

Not really caring that he was prying (after all, hadn't Jackson just followed him around the Narrows?), Jonathan peered inside to see what Jackson contained within.

There was no ID, nothing that would indicate and kind of identity for the man bearing the wallet. There was some cash inside, but no credit cards or anything like that. There was, however, a photograph.

It was of a girl, probably no more than 17 or 18 years old. She was smiling brightly, and it was obvious that the photo was one of those ones that high schools use to torment their students into sitting still. This girl, however, seemed genuinely happy, her smile radiant and authentic. She was wearing some sort of uniform, her hair tied back in a tight braid as stared at the camera.

Jonathan frowned. Who was she? Checking the back of the photo, there was no name or date or anything else that might give him a clue as to her identity. Jonathan began to rack his brain for all the possible relationships this girl could have to Jackson. His daughter? No, definitely not. Jackson was too young to have a daughter in high school.

Jonathan noticed that the photo was somewhat fuzzy, and he wondered if the picture might be several years old. If that was the case, then the girl could have grown up, and possibly be near Jackson's age. If that was the case, then could she be a coworker? A friend? A lover? A _wife?_

Jonathan wasn't really sure he wanted to entertain that possibility.

Putting down the wallet, Jonathan returned to his room, thinking over the photo and what it might mean. As he drifted off to sleep, he couldn't help but wonder what made her so different that Jackson kept a picture of her with him.

-----

_His house aflame and most of his family dead, Jackson managed to make it to Sal's car under the cover of night, covered in blood and reeking of ash and smoke._

_Sitting in the driver's seat was Sal, while Kevin occupied the passenger side. Jackson climbed into the back of the car without a word, a wave of tiredness sweeping over him as he realized how late it was at night._

_Kevin turned around to look at him and, upon seeing his haggard appearance, let out a low whistle. "Shit, kid."_

Sal started the engine, and the radio began to play the Rolling Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil" as they began to drive away. "So how'd it go?"

Leaning his elbows on his knees, Jackson replied emotionlessly, "I slit her throat and left her in my house, then set the house on fire."

Kevin seemed a little surprised by this. "You set your house on fire?"

Sal shook his head. "Your parents are gonna be pissed."

"They're dead."

Sal blinked, then looked at Jackson through the rearview mirror. "What?"

"They're dead. They found me and my brother trying to bury Anna, so we killed them. Then I put all of the bodies in the house and set it on fire. After that, I came here."

Whether Sal was surprised by the fact that he'd carried out the murders of both his parents, or by the unemotional calm with which he'd recalled it, Jackson couldn't tell. Either way, the look on his face was one of anxiety, though Jackson couldn't tell on whose behalf it was for.

_Kevin, on the other hand, seemed quite impressed. "So how'd it feel, kid? Your first official kill?"_

Jackson thought over this. "Tired," he said. "Drained."

Kevin chuckled. "Don't worry, your first assignment never turns out like you think it will. It's one of the many ways that murder is just like sex."

_Sal, still appearing on edge, asked, "What happened to your brother?"_

Jackson shrugged. "I don't know. I think he's out in the woods somewhere."

Sal ran his fingers through his hair while still keeping his focus on the road ahead. "But he knows, right? He saw Anna's body?"

"Yeah, but he killed our mother to cover it up." Jackson grinned a little, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. "I wouldn't worry about my brother. He's not going to rat me out."

_Sal exchanged a glance with Kevin, who merely shrugged. Sighing, he returned his eyes to the road with the attitude of one who has no control whatsoever over what the future holds._

"_Where are we going?" Jackson asked suddenly, realizing that he had no clue exactly what they were doing or where they were heading._

_Kevin answered right after taking a sip from a can of beer, his whole attitude relaxed and fearless. "We're heading back to the motel. We'll get some shut eye, check out tomorrow morning, and then start the drive to Miami."_

_Jackson nodded, grateful for the excuse to get some sleep. After all of the events of the night, he simply wanted to close his eyes and forget everything that had just happened. When Sal and Kevin said nothing more, the motions of the car began to lull him to sleep, and he probably would have remained slumbering if it were not for the fact that they pulled up to the motel parking lot a few minutes later._

-----

_At about three in the morning, Jackson found himself staring out the motel room window, a case of insomnia having struck him with a vengeance. Try as he might, every time he lay down on the cot Sal and Kevin had set up for him, he could never last five minutes without tossing and turning. Something was bothering him, and he knew what it was._

_Jackson sat up and slid off the cot, deciding what to do. Quickly, he pulled on his jacket and sneakers before pushing open the door to their motel room and slipping out quietly._

_He made it about halfway across the parking lot when he suddenly heard a loud, "Hey!" Turning around, he saw Sal standing by the door, his pistol out and aimed directly at Jackson._

_  
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" Sal asked loudly, not seeming to care that it was three in the morning and everyone else was asleep._

_A bit surprised by the gun being aimed at him, Jackson replied, "Shit, Sal, I'm gonna be right back!"_

"That's not an answer," Sal said as he cocked the gun, looking even more anxious than he had in the car.

"_Sal, it's no big deal! I'll be back in ten minutes!"_

"Bullshit. You chickened out, didn't you?"

Jackson shook his head fervently, not wanting to incur his wrath. "Sal, that's not it!"

"Then what is it?"

Jackson sighed. "I was gonna go say goodbye."

Confused, Sal inquired, "To who?"

"To my brother. Last I saw him, I was waving a gun in his face, and if I'm never gonna see him again, I figure it's the least I can do."

_Sal glanced over Jackson's face for any traces of insincerity, any hint that he might be lying. When he found none, he sighed with resignation and lowered the gun. Tucking the gun in his waistband, he asked, "Do you know where he is?"_

Jackson thought about this for a second. "Probably with the Harrisons. Their dad works with…he worked with my dad."

Sighing again, Sal asked, "Do you know where they live?"

"Yeah, they're about a half-mile from where my house used to be."

Sal looked at Jackson for a minute, apparently weighing his options. Eventually, he just shook his head a little before muttering, "Fine. But I'm driving you there, and you'd better be quick about it."

Jackson nodded. "Sure thing."

-----

_It was only ten minutes later that Jackson found himself climbing into the first story window of the Harrisons' house, Sal sitting in the car about half a block away. Trying his best not to make any noise, Jackson slid open the window, grateful for the fact that it was unlocked. Peering inside, he could see Jonathan sound asleep in the guest bedroom, covered in soot from what Jackson could only guess was the fire. Jackson's heart sank when he realized that Jonathan must have gone back for him, and he wondered what he'd thought when he'd been missing._

_Jackson landed with a 'thud' as he jumped to the floor from the window frame. The noise didn't wake Jonathan, and Jackson could only hope that he hadn't awoken anyone else in the house, either._

_Standing upright from his landing position, Jackson hissed at his brother, "Scarecrow! Scarecrow, wake up!"_

Receiving no response, Jackson quietly treaded up to the younger boy and shook him roughly, continuing to hiss, "Scarecrow!"

After a few seconds, Jonathan stirred, sitting up slowly and squinting at Jackson with near-sighted eyes.

"Jackson…?"

Jackson nodded, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. "It's me. Listen to me: I'm leaving, okay? I'm going away somewhere, and I'm not going to be able to see you again."

Jonathan, still not fully awake, mumbled, "Wha…?"

Jackson grabbed his younger brother firmly by the shoulders and said resolutely, "I'm not going to see you ever again. I killed Anna and Dad, remember?"

Jonathan blinked, and his eyes widened in understanding. Jackson continued, reiterating, "They're going to take me away so I can work for them. I'm not allowed to see you ever again. Do you understand?"

_Jonathan, still not sounding completely awake yet, said, "Then take me with you. Don't leave me behind."_

Jackson shook his head. "I can't. It's too dangerous."

Biting his lip, Jackson wrapped his arms around his brother and held him tightly. Sinking his chin into Jonathan's shoulder, he whispered, "It'll be okay. You're gonna be fine. You don't need me anymore, you got that?"

Jonathan nodded, sinking into his brother's arms, seeming to accept that this would be the last time they ever saw each other.

_Pulling out of the embrace, Jackson murmured, "I have to go." Staring his brother straight in the eye, he stated firmly for the last time, "It'll be alright. You're going to do fine without me."_

With that, Jackson stood up and walked to the window, not looking back as he climbed through its wooden frame. Without a single glance behind him, he ran across the lawn to Sal's car, abandoning the only family he still had left.

-----

_Jonathan fell asleep without delay, still exhausted from the events of that night. When he awoke the next morning, he could vaguely remember dreaming of Jackson sitting on the edge of his mattress. His memory of the dream was hazy and incomplete, and within a few hours, he had forgotten about it completely._


	9. The Wreckage That He Left Behind

Alrighty, eight pages for ya!

Easter went pretty well. I have to say, it is quite amusing to watch your fifteen year-old brother and your sixteen year-old family friend hop around with two of their legs and two of their arms tied together, attempting to steal candy from a ten year-old using a ping-pong paddle attached to a yardstick. Ah, the memories.

I'll be seeing Scary Movie 4 tonight, which is supposed to have a scene parodying 'Red Eye'. Here's hoping it's good!

By the way, for future reference: if you're going to look up info on Jungian archetypes, make sure you look up _Carl_ Jung, rather than _George_ Jung. Apparently, there's, erm, a bit of a difference. XD

-----

Disclaimer: Jackson and Jonathan are my playthings, and I shall do with them as I please! DANCE, LITTLE MONKEYS, DANCE!

Jonathan and Jackson: –dance-

-----

THE ONE WARNING: There are no warnings. You have now been warned by the warning that warns against warnings.

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_The Wreckage That He Left Behind_

_When Jonathan arrived at the police station the morning after the fire, he was amazed by how people who had once hated and reviled him for his psychotic games now looked down on him with pity. Apparently, there was nothing bad you could say about a kid who'd just lost his entire family the night before. Not that Jonathan particularly cared; he felt like he was walking through a dream world and that nothing truly mattered, because it was only a matter of time before he awoke in his bed at home and began a normal day._

_As the officers all gave him sympathetic looks, one of the inspectors led him into an empty room, where he was questioned about the events of the past night. Jonathan numbly recounted a night in which he'd squabbled with Jackson over something stupid, went into the woods for two hours to cool off, and came back home to discover his house on fire. He'd known that he would eventually be questioned, considering that they were investigating the possibility of arson, so he'd been able to come up with a story the night before._

_Jackson would've hated him if he'd known, but Jonathan was quite the accomplished liar._

_The police, who had no reason to believe that Jonathan's story wasn't true (after all, how could a fourteen year-old kill his own family?), ended the questioning fairly quickly. Once they had, one of the investigators asked Jonathan, "Has anyone told you about where you're going to stay now?"_

"No," Jonathan admitted, not even having considered the idea himself. He was still convinced that this was all a very elaborate hallucination, so why would it matter?

"Well, we've found your parents' old wills. They've stated that, in a case such as this, you're to live with your aunt Helen."

Jonathan mulled over this, trying to remember a single time that either of his parents had ever mentioned anyone named Helen, or, for that matter, the existence of any relatives whatsoever. He came up blank, the idea of having relatives outside of his four-member family never having crossed his mind.

"_Is she my aunt on my dad's side or my mom's side?" Jonathan asked abruptly, wondering what kind of woman he was going to end up stuck with._

_The inspector, surprised that Jonathan didn't even know this simple fact, blanched a bit before answering, "Your mother's."_

Jonathan shrugged. "Alright."

_Recovering from his surprise, the inspector added, "We also looked over the inheritance part of their will. Even though you would have been set to inherit their savings, it seems that your parents had several debts racked up, and, well…"_

"There's no money," Jonathan filled in, having expected something like this to happen.

"_Essentially, yes. But I'm sure your aunt will be able to provide for you without any trouble." Checking his watch, the inspector added, "When we called her, she said she would buy a plane ticket on the next flight out. She should probably be here by this eveni-…"_

He was cut off when a loud commotion coming from down the hall, and the inspector got up to go investigate. Jonathan, vaguely curious, got up and followed him, wondering if he'd get to see a fistfight.

_Looking out into the hall, Jonathan could see that the ruckus consisted of a petite Italian woman screaming at two police officers at the top of her lungs as a tall man (who Jonathan could only assume was her husband) looked on._

"_Ma'am, have you considered the possibility that she's at a friend's house, or…"_

"We moved here yesterday! She doesn't know her way around town, she barely knows anybody here…"

Attempting to sooth the riled woman, the officer said, "She's only been missing for a few hours, ma'am. She's seventeen, she might have decided to walk into town…"

This only served to further enrage her. Jonathan found the whole situation slightly amusing, watching a tiny woman make two full-grown cops cower in fear. Furious, the woman shrieked, "There was a ladder by her window! When we went out into the woods to look for her, there was a trail of blood! And…"

She stopped for a second, and her eyes seemed to rest on Jonathan, who was still standing in the doorway of the room he'd been questioned in. She stood frozen for a moment, as though a realization had swept over her. After a second or two, she took a step towards him, face contorted. The cops, confused by this, didn't spring into action until she ran over to him like a raging bull and grabbed him by his shirt collar.

"_What did you do with her?-! Where is my Anna?-!"_

Jonathan, taken aback, managed to reply, "I don't know what you're talking about…"

"You liar!" she screamed, and it looked like she was about to hit him when one of the officers managed to pull her off.

"_Ma'am, what do you think you're…?"_

Pointing wildly at Jonathan, she yelled, "Jackson must have done it! He was the only one who'd spoken to her all yesterday! She'd have trusted him, that's why we didn't hear a struggle…"

_The officer quieted her for a second, realizing the mistake made. She tried to continue, insisting, "Ask him! Ask Jackson…"_

"Ma'am, this isn't Jackson Crane. This is his brother, Jonathan." The officer's expression changed noticeably, and he gave Jonathan a mournful look as he added, "Jackson died last night in a fire."

Anna's mother took a step back, and it seemed as though her face began to crumple into itself. Jonathan watched curiously as she seemed to attempt to apologize, her mouth forming the words but the sound getting caught in her throat. Eventually, tears just ran down her face and she buried her face into her husband's chest.

_One of the officers sighed loudly and asked, "Is there any particular reason that you think Anna might be in danger? Anything that might put her at a high level of risk?"_

The husband seemed to consider this question for quite some time, not knowing how to deal with both irritated cops and a sobbing, hysterical wife. Biting his lip, he began, "Her uncle…" But then he stopped, seeming to think better of it, and merely shook his head.

"_Never mind."_

-----

Just as they had planned, Leon and Jonathan went out for coffee once again the next day. It was an amiable meeting, and it was similar to their previous gathering. They got coffee and discussed Zsasz, eventually moving on to other topics of discussion. Leon smoke Capris, and Jonathan spied a familiar blonde-haired man standing outside. This time, however, he ignored him.

They eventually got to talking freely, if only because Leon seemed so interested in keeping the conversation moving. From Zsasz, they began discussing psychology and its various schools (when Jonathan admitted to being a Jung follower, Leon dismissed Jung as "Freud without the sex"). They continued from there into talking about work in general, before swapping stories about the horror that was their coworkers. After that, they finished their coffees and threw out their containers. Jonathan was just about to walk out the door when Leon quickly asked him if he'd like to meet again the next day.

Surprising even himself, Jonathan accepted.

There was something about Leon that Jonathan had to begrudgingly admit to himself that he liked, though he wasn't completely sure what it was. Jonathan didn't even really like people in general, and had only agreed to the first (and second) coffee meeting because he needed information on Zsasz for the upcoming trial. It had been purely out of self-interest that he'd accepted both times, so what made him agree to a third?

Leon had an easygoing air about him, which made him feel approachable, and he honestly seemed to be interested in what Jonathan had to say. And yet, at the same time, he had an irritating habit of trying to tease Jonathan during conversation. He probably only meant it to be friendly, but it reminded Jonathan too strongly of Jackson's taunting attitude. Plus, if Leon didn't stop smoking those awful cigarettes, Jonathan was going to throttle him.

In any case, Jonathan decided to let it go. He didn't need to understand why he had accepted (even if being a psychiatrist made him want to). He merely reassured himself by reminding himself that, if Leon asked him to coffee again, he could always say no. Depending on how he felt, he could always decline.

After their third meeting for coffee, Leon asked if he'd like to meet for lunch in a few days' time. Without hesitation, Jonathan agreed.

Needless to say, Jonathan's inner turmoil over this didn't even come close to matching Jackson's envy as he watched his brother go out, day after day, with the ruffled-hair punk from the asylum. Something about Leon annoyed Jackson, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Just something about his mannerisms irritated him. In any event, watching him with his brother was like looking at a car wreck: you don't want to look, but you can't help it.

In any event, Jackson hadn't stopped his following, though he had gotten slightly better at disguising himself. Instead of sticking with the familiar "blonde middle-aged man" disguise, Jackson started swapping around hair colors, eye colors, and aging effects.

During that fourth meeting, the one where they went out to lunch, he came dressed as a red-haired young man with green eyes and a shit-load of freckles. There was a boardwalk outside of the restaurant they were at, and Jackson merely wandered around, chatting in a heavy Dublin accent with nearby vendors. When Leon and Jonathan emerged, Jackson followed them from afar, and he couldn't help but hate the way Leon kept smiling at his brother.

Watching them pile into Leon's car, Jackson felt frustration build inside of him for reasons he didn't care to think about. If Jonathan wanted to go out with Leon, it was (sadly) his choice to do so. Besides, nothing had progressed past "meeting with a co-worker" level yet; hell, when Jackson heard Jonathan talk about it, it seemed like they weren't even _friends_.

Yet Jackson couldn't help but abhor it when the two of them met, and there was some small part of him that nagged at him, telling him that he _was_ jealous. Personally, Jackson hoped that the small part of him that was nagging him would go jump off of a cliff.

As Leon's car drove away, headed for some unknown location, Jackson strolled off, his head clouded with thoughts that he tried to ignore. As he headed for a local tavern, intent on getting something strong to drink, he could only think of what Leon's neck might look like after being snapped in half.

-----

_Jonathan found himself watching the Harrisons' two young boys later that day, still feeling numb from the events of the night before. He felt a twinge of sadness as he watched the Harrisons' six year-old son chase his four year-old brother around their den, both of them squealing with delight, knowing that their impromptu babysitter would do nothing to stop them._

_There was a loud knocking on the door, and Jackson could vaguely hear Mrs. Harrison call, "I'll get it," before emerging on the stairwell. Walking quickly, she went down to the door and, after peering at her two sons and their wild game of tag, opened the door and called out, "Hello?"_

Standing there was a tall woman that Jonathan could only assume was his aunt Helen, judging by the similarities she had with his mother. She wore a business suit as though she'd been born in it, and had an air of authority that gave her the appearance of one who could take on the world and win. She had the same facial features as his mother, but because she had more weight on her, they had been softened to look more welcoming than his mother's harsh face. When Jonathan looked at her, she looked more human to him than his mother ever did, probably because her skin wasn't layered in makeup, and her hair was a natural-looking dirty blonde, rather than bleached. Her whole manner seemed energetic and alert, and at the center of this energy hovered her piercing blue eyes, the same shade as her sister's.

_Shooting a warm smile at Mrs. Harrison, she said, "I'm Helen Bouvier, Jonathan's aunt. Is he around?"_

_Mrs. Harrison nodded, her eyes sweeping over the woman who stood before her. "He's right over there," she indicated, jabbing her thumb in his general direction._

_Spotting her nephew, Helen pushed her way right past Mrs. Harrison and walked over to Jonathan, her warm smile crinkling into a sympathetic expression similar to the ones Jonathan had seen all day long. Jonathan remained seated in the same position on the couch, not even turning his head when his aunt sat down next to him while Mrs. Harrison exited the room._

"_Hey there, Jonathan. How're you doing?"_

Jonathan tried to think of some sarcastic reply, but gave up and merely shrugged his shoulders as he stared off into space. "As good as can be expected."

_Helen nodded, seeming concerned for her nephew. Jonathan wondered why she should even care, but he kept his mouth shut. "Well, I'm not sure if anyone told you, but you're going to be coming to live with me after the funeral."_

Jonathan didn't move his head or change his expression. He merely mumbled, "They told me."

_Seeing that Jonathan seemed to be anesthetized to everything around him, she put her hand on his and said, "I know this has got to be hard on you. And I know that we've never met before, but I promise you, it'll be alright."_

It'll be alright. You're going to do fine without me.

_Jonathan blinked, and tried to remember where he'd heard those words before. Try as he might, though, he couldn't seem to remember. After a few seconds, he gave up, deciding that it didn't really matter._

_Helen continued. "I'm going to take care of the funeral expenses and everything, and once it's over, we'll take a flight back to my place. Is there anything from your house that you'd like to take with you?"_

"Everything was destroyed in the fire," Jonathan stated without any emotion in his voice. He noted the surprise on Helen's face, and it was obvious that she hadn't realized what she was saying.

"_I'm sorry, I…"_

Turning a cold eye to her, he asked, "Why? Did you set it on fire?"

Helen didn't answer this, not willing to take the bait. Instead, she said, "If it's alright with the Harrisons, I'll take you back to our hotel room and you'll stay with us. Tyler's waiting back there…"

"Who's Tyler?" Jonathan asked abruptly, unfamiliar with the name.

_If Helen was surprised by this question, she certainly didn't show it. Instead, she simply replied, "He's your cousin. He's only a year younger than you, so you two should get along fine. He'll be coming to the funeral, too."_

_Jonathan shrugged. "Okay."_

Helen, seemingly satisfied, asked, "Are there any questions you have?"

Jonathan thought for a minute, trying to figure out what questions he might have about this woman whom he'd never met before and with whom he'd be living. Not to mention her son, who he hadn't even known existed until five seconds ago. Amazingly, he was only able to come up with one question to ask his aunt, all others fizzling out his brain before he had a chance to ask them.

"Where do you live?"

She smiled brightly. "Gotham City."


	10. Monsters

Apparently, the scene parodying 'Red Eye' has been cut out of Scary Movie 4. Damn you, Wikipedia! Damn you for giving me false hopes and for making me rent the DVD for the sole purpose of seeing the deleted scenes!

A word to the wise: if you go to deviantart looking for Red Eye fanart and type "Lisa Jackson" in to the search engine, you will end up with pictures of Lisa Marie Presley and Michael Jackson. Scary.  
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Disclaimer: I own everything. In fact, I own _you_. Yes, you.

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THE ONE WARNING: I do not give warnings. Excuse me while I cackle.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Monsters, Green-Eyed and Otherwise_

_Jackson lay across the backseat, feeling rather bored and tired as Sal's car made its way down the highway, with Sal in the driver's seat and Kevin in the shotgun position. He hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, thanks to his impromptu visit to the Harrisons' house. But he didn't really care. After all, he had the lo-o-o-ong trip to Miami to use for some shut eye._

_Glancing over his shoulder at him, Kevin asked brightly, "What, you're not excited?"_

"I'm tired," Jackson groaned. "You would be, too, if you'd spent your night killing people and setting your house on fire."

_Kevin laughed. "I guess I can't blame you."_

Rolling onto his side, Jackson asked, "Where is this place, anyway? I mean, you said it's in Miami, but it can't be in the center of town or anything, right?"

Kevin grinned. "It's in the middle of the downtown area, for all to see. No hiding it or anything like that."

Jackson blinked and sat up. "How? I mean…do people know what kind of place it is?"

Kevin shook his head. "Nope. According to the sign on the door and all the posters in the front part of the building, it's a religious youth center for troubled boys called 'The Children of Heaven'. People see a bunch of teen boys and adults coming in and out, so nobody really asks any questions." 

_Jackson frowned. "But what is it really called? The organization?"_

A wide smile broke out on Kevin's face, and Sal rolled his eyes. Gleefully, Kevin broke into a bizarre poem, Sal joining in on the second syllable.

"To all of you children, you gentlemen, ladies,

Say your prayers now, we're the Children of Hades!"__

Kevin laughed hysterically as Sal focused on the road again, smiling slightly as though this was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever done.

_Jackson blanched, not quite sure how to respond to the two of them bursting out into prose. "What?"_

His laughter subsiding somewhat, Kevin explained, "Somebody came up with that rhyme years ago, and it's stuck ever since. We've always been called the Children of Hades, but this guy turned it into some random little couplet, and it's stuck ever since."

_Lying back down on across the backseat, Jackson murmured, "Really, now."_

_Tossing a paper into the back seat of the car, Kevin remarked, "I forgot to tell you: you're apparently dead."_

_As the newspaper landed in a flurry over his face, Jackson muttered, "What?"_

"You're dead, apparently. Read the front page article."

Putting the paper back into order, Jackson stared at the front page photos. On one side was his junior class photo; on the other was a picture of Anna smiling merrily. The headline above the pictures screamed "DOUBLE TRAGEDY: One teen murdered, another gone missing in a single night".

_Looking over the accompanying article, Jackson discovered that the police had, indeed, mistaken Anna's body for his own. They had also managed to figure out that the fire was arson, and there was an investigation to see who was responsible. The Napolitanos, meanwhile, were in a frenzy to find their "missing" daughter. From what the writer stated, Jackson could guess that there was panic back at his hometown, with parents wondering what kind of fiends would set the Cranes' house ablaze and kidnap an innocent girl, while also wondering if perhaps their child could be next._

_It made Jackson smile, to be perfectly honest._

_Suddenly struck by a question that had not occurred to him in the several days since he'd met Kevin and Sal. Sitting up, Jackson inquired, "Who the hell hired you to kill Anna anyway?"_

_Kevin, not even turning his head, replied, "Her brother."_

_Jackson thought about this, his only reply a grunted "Huh". He mused over this to himself as he lay back down on the backseat, his mind vaguely wondering what kind of brother she must have had that he'd wanted her dead so badly. Only a few minutes later, he was asleep._

-----

Although Jonathan may have thought otherwise, Jackson did in fact do more than follow him while he was strolling the streets of Gotham. Eventually, Jonathan's routines became too boring and repetitive for Jackson's tastes, and he began to wander around the city as though he were a tourist on vacation. A very _long _vacation.

He became accustomed to the local bars and taverns, as he was wont to do. But he also roamed around the downtown area, seeing the downtown area's various shops and vendors. He would wander through the small parks that were scattered haphazardly across the city, with only the occasional graffiti and geese crap to mar them.

It became something of an unspoken personal goal to see every sight there was in Gotham, and Jackson undertook it with a seriousness that some people undertook prayer. Really, it just gave him something to do during the long hours that no one was around in Jonathan's apartment (and with no TV, radio, or computer, what the hell was there to _do_ in that place?), but Jackson still attached a sort of solemnity to it. After all, he would only be in Gotham for a few months, at most. Why not make the best of the time that was spent there? And he knew that he'd have to leave. He was on the run after all, and even though he'd only been there a few weeks, Jonathan already seemed to be sick to death of him.

To be perfectly honest, Jonathan's venomous attitude had surprised him. He hadn't quite expected such anger and hatred to lace his voice when he'd arrived. After all, he wasn't even sure that Jonathan had known he was _alive_. And they'd been separated for thirteen years. Shouldn't he have been a little, dare he think it, happy?

Yet he'd been greeted with a sneering attitude that Jackson had never associated with his kid brother from years ago. To be perfectly honest, it was a bit shocking, the change in temperament that had occurred. Something must have happened to change him, but Jackson couldn't figure out what.

Not that it mattered. Jackson didn't really care, or, at least, he didn't want to care. And he'd already tried to figure out what might have made Jonathan so irritable around him when he'd first returned, but he'd drawn a blank.

Which, of course, he used as permission to irritate him to no end. Follow him, taunt him, threaten him at knifepoint…he could do whatever he liked, and Jonathan would always be irritable. But he would never do what he threatened to: _he'd never kick him out._

It was simple, in Jackson's mind: Jonathan had tried to kick him out once, and only once. Jackson hadn't even made it a whole block without coming to fetch him, right after he'd held a knife to his throat and made him bleed a stream of crimson. And he'd let him stay.

It wasn't the money he gave him, that was for sure. There was something else that made Jonathan let him stay, but Jackson wasn't completely sure what it was. He wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to know why. The more selfish part of him said to forget about it as he reaped the benefits of its existence.

But things were changing slowly. Jackson was starting to become more curious about what exactly it was that went on in Jonathan Crane's head. Earlier, he'd been content not to care, but a certain Leon Warren was making him wonder what the hell kind of thoughts were running through Jonathan's mind.

Too bad he wasn't the shrink out of the two brothers.

Whenever Jackson started to think about Jonathan and Leon, three facts always came to mind.

1: Leon was annoying as all hell.

2: Jonathan seemed to like Leon, yet their interactions were strictly platonic.

3: Jonathan didn't have any other friends.

Jackson probably wouldn't be so worried about Fact #2 if it weren't for the existence of Facts #1 and #3. Jackson wouldn't really be so vexed about this one friendship that Jonathan was managing to develop if it weren't for the fact that the man was quite the stubborn loner, and that the man he was becoming friends with was quite an irritating little bastard.

There was still some of the old possessiveness lingering in the back of Jackson's psyche, waiting to strike whenever he took even a small shine to someone. If they were his, then no one could touch them, or look at them, or hurt them. They belonged to _him_, and only him.

Of course, Jackson didn't see it as possessiveness. He merely viewed it as the protective feelings of an older sibling. There was no jealousy, no ownership. Simply innocent guardianship and nothing more.

…as though anything about Jackson Rippner could be considered _innocent._

He'd accidentally spotted Leon once, while buying a book at one of the local shops. The young doctor had simply passed by the front window, walking nonchalantly down one of the many streets of Gotham. Jackson, disguised as usual, paid for his copy of Dr. Faustus as quickly as he could and followed the younger man to his apartment a few blocks away.

Jackson set himself up on a bench across the street from Leon's wide apartment window, pretending to read his new book when he was really watching the other man. No one seemed to pay him any mind, which worked very nicely for him.

Leon, apparently, was a pretty conventional person. He got changed out of his work clothes into a T-shirt and jeans before watching TV for a while, heating up a TV dinner, and then sitting down in an armchair to curl up with the newspaper. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing special about him, yet Jackson couldn't help but watch.

It was like the beginnings of his assignments as manager, where he would watch a target carefully to get inside his head. But Leon wasn't a target, and Jackson was trying to get into Jonathan's head, not his. It was bizarre and twisted, but Jackson didn't care. He wanted to know. He wanted to know what made him so different in Jonathan's eyes.

When the sun had set and Leon looked like he was going to fall asleep, Jackson finally checked his watch and realized that he'd sat there for several hours. Grabbing his book, he walked away, still not satisfied as he headed towards Jonathan's apartment building, anger coursing throughout him like a toxin.

-----

_The drive to Miami was long and boring, and Jackson fell asleep several times during the trip. There were only a few noteworthy incidents, such as when they drove through McDonald's to get lunch, and when songs came on that Kevin decided to sing along to loudly and without any modicum of self-control. Beyond that, most of the trip was silent, with very little banter being exchanged between the three travelers._

_It was late at night when they arrived, and Jackson didn't even realize that they had reached their destination until he heard Sal dully announce, "We're here," before climbing out of the car. Sitting up from his sleeping position over the backseat, Jackson peered out of the car window with something akin to excitement._

_He was greeted by a large, rather bland building that looked like half of an aluminum tube lying on its side. It didn't appear to have any windows, and the metal exterior gave it the look of a blast shelter from the 50s gone wrong. Or of a discarded warehouse. Either way, it didn't exactly scream "Home Sweet Home"._

On the front of the building was a sign the size of a billboard, with "CHILDREN OF HEAVEN!" written in block letters that were probably more intimidating than they should have been. Surrounding the words were a choir of chubby cherubim with various musical instruments. It seemed to be a mockery, Jackson thought, knowing full well that no "youth center" was contained within its walls. One could only imagine what really went on within its metal frame, but Jackson knew it was only a matter of time before he found out.

_As the three of them entered the building, they were greeted by a small hallway with many "motivational posters" on it, which screamed of mockery as much as the sign out front did. They featured smiling children with their parents, proclaiming messages like "Don't forget to floss your teeth!" and "Eating healthy makes everyone happy!"_

_They walked through a small room that gave off the appearance of a lobby, with a few benches and a few more posters. There was a small bell on the wall, with a sign that said, "Ring for assistance", and there were several doors that had names printed across them, as though this were a doctor's office. Sal and Kevin made their way towards one that had a small intercom button on it. When they pushed it, a deep, muted voice asked, "Who is it?"_

Kevin answered, suddenly sounding very authoritarian. "It's Sal and Kevin. We have a new recruit with us."

"Alright."

The door unlocked, and as they made their way through, Jackson noticed immediately the change of scenery. Where the front part of the building had been bright and cheery, the large open area that they were entering was spare and dimly lit. It took a while before Jackson's eyes adjusted to the light, and when they did, he could see that the area was empty, which surprised him. It seemed to surprise Sal, too, who muttered, "Where the hell is everyone?"

Kevin shrugged carelessly. "Doesn't matter." He turned to Jackson, a grin plastered on his face. "So Jack, what do you think?"

Jackson scanned the room. "Seems kinda empty."

"Yeah, but some of the guys must have decided to go out somewhere. It's not that big a deal." Walking towards one of the doors on the wall, saying something muffled about "my office".

_As Kevin was about to turn the doorknob, a man seemed to appear out of nowhere, looking as nervous as could be. Before Kevin could open the door, the man called his name in a thin, anxious voice. Kevin turned around and, upon seeing the man, smiled. "Martin! Hey, what's going on?"_

Martin didn't seem to reciprocate Kevin's happy mood. Walking up to him, he said, "Kevin, something's happened."

Kevin's smiled disintegrated. "What's wrong? Where is everybody?"

Martin spoke quietly, trying to calm himself. "They're all in their rooms, just like he told them."

"Who told them?"

"The man who's in your office. The man that your supervisor sent here."

Kevin's face paled somewhat, and he ran his fingers through his hair uneasily. "Did he give his name?"

_Martin opened his mouth as though to answer when the door Kevin had been about to open was suddenly swung ajar. Turning their heads, all four of them looked to see an intimidating man standing in the doorway. He seemed to be in his late forties, and had black hair slicked back on his head. He had dark, gleaming eyes, and a tiny beard on his chin. He wore a business suit, and would have seemed like an ordinary man if it hadn't been for an almost malevolent look about him._

_Holding out his hand to Kevin, he spoke in a demure, polished tone. "My name is Guiteau, and I was sent here two days ago by your superiors. Your name is Kevin, is it not?"_

Kevin nodded, uneasily taking the older man's hand and shaking it.

_Smiling politely, Guiteau added, "When I arrived, I was not aware that you were out on assignment. I have been hoping to speak to you for the last several days." Scanning Kevin, then Sal, and finally resting his eyes on Jackson, he remarked, "I see you also have a new recruit."  
_

_Kevin nodded cautiously. "We picked him up in Tennessee while we were down there on assignment."_

_Guiteau smiled in a way that that seemed to reek more of malice than of delight before saying, "Why don't you gentlemen follow me? Mr. Kevin and I have much to discuss." This was punctuated by a dark look in Martin's direction, which he seemed to take as a cue to slink away._

The three travelers followed Guiteau into a small waiting room, which was located next to what Jackson could only assume was Kevin's office. Turning to Sal and Jackson, Guiteau instructed, "Sit down. I shall inform you when you may come in."

_Sal and Jackson, sat down quietly as the two other men entered the room without a word, shutting the door behind them. Jackson was confused by the whole scenario. Wasn't Kevin supposed to be in charge? If so, why was he taking orders from someone who had just appeared out nowhere? And why was everyone looking so on edge?_

Not willing to broach the topic with Sal, Jackson merely sat silently, feeling the confusing seriousness of it closing in on him. Jackson tried to remain calm, but he couldn't help but try to overhear the conversation going on in the other room. He could hear Guiteau speaking in a low, calm voice, while Kevin's seemed louder and more pitched, but no less muffled. Sal sat stiffly, not looking anywhere but the ground. Although he looked calm, Jackson could tell that something bad was going on in the next room, something which neither of them could prevent.

_Jackson tensed when he heard the sudden sound of a gunshot coming from the next room, followed by three more blasts and a muffled moan._

_Suddenly, Guiteau appeared at the door, all smiles and pleasantries._

"_Please, come in. I would like to speak to both of you."_

Not daring to disagree, Jackson and Sal arose and followed him into the office, stepping over Kevin's limp, bleeding form as they did so.


	11. The Patron Saint of the Insane

Did you think I'd forgotten you guys? Muahaha! I have returned!

In all honesty, though, I apologize for the late update. I've had a musical to contend with (my last high school play! AAH!), as well as two AP tests (and another one in two days). Updates should be much shorter, especially since I have to get a _lot_ of writing done by June 5th. So look forward to a strung-out author and much faster updates.

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Disclaimer: Give a guess whether or not I own them. Go on, guess.

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THE ONE WARNING: I think we've been over this already…

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_The Patron Saint of the Insane_

_Jonathan was surprised by the niceness of the hotel that Helen was staying at. When her car pulled into the parking lot, he had gaped at the sight before him, a far cry from the motels that littered the area. By the time they'd arrived at Helen's suite, Jonathan's mind had been boggled by the clean, plush carpets and brightly lit hallways._

_When Helen swung open the door to her room, Jonathan could see it was similarly well-decorated. But he was more interested in the pale, blonde-haired boy sitting at a small table off to the side. From the way his pencil scratched slowly across a piece of looseleaf that he was doing some kind of homework. It was obvious, even at first glance, that he was Helen's child; they had the same hair, same nose, same eyes, and their limbs were similarly lanky._

_Putting away her room key, Helen cheerfully called, "Hey, Tyler." The boy looked up, eyes darting from his mother to Jonathan and back again. "Hey, Mom."_

Smiling, Helen walked over to her son and kissed the top of his head. "How's your homework coming?"

"S'okay. I'm about halfway done."

_Turning back to her nephew, Helen said, "Tyler, this is your cousin, Jonathan. Jonathan, this is Tyler."  
_

_Nodding towards Jonathan, Tyler called, "Hey."_

Jonathan barely emitted a sound, choosing to mumble, "Hi."

Checking her watch, Helen remarked, "It's about six-thirty. Are either of you boys hungry?"

Tyler nodded eagerly, while Jonathan gave no response as he stared blankly out into the room. Helen, seeing this, said, "Alright, well, I'll go get us some pizza. That sound okay?"

Again, Tyler nodded enthusiastically, while Jonathan gave no reply, lost in a dream world.

_Helen, almost seeming to understand, reacted as though both boys had answered. "Well, I'll go drive to a pizza place and see what I can pick up."_

Sticking her room key into her pocket, she merrily exited, leaving the two boys to themselves.

_Tyler looked at Jonathan for a few seconds as though waiting for him to say something. When his cousin stood still, saying nothing as he stared dully at the ground, Tyler eventually returned to his homework, the pencil scratching loudly against the paper. Jonathan didn't notice any of this; he was lost in a daydream in which Jackson stood before him, revealing that everything was a grand prank for an early April Fool's._

"_**Did you really think I was gone?" Jackson laughed, obviously amused by his brother's gullibility. Flicking his brother on the forehead, Jackson chuckled, "Did you really think I'd kill Dad? That I'd let you kill Mom?"**_

Smiling a little at his own foolishness, Jonathan admitted, "You tricked me good."

Scoffing, Jackson teased, "I had you going, didn't I? You should know me better by now, Scarecrow."

Jonathan nodded. "I should've known."

"_You can sit down, if you want."_

Jonathan blinked, startled by Tyler's sudden interjection. "What?"

Using his pencil to indicate a chair, Tyler repeated, "You can sit down if you want. You don't have to keep standing."

"Oh," Jonathan murmured, as though this thought had never occurred to him. He shuffled over to the chair mechanically, sitting down stiffly as though his limbs were leaden and heavy. Tyler watched him do so, asking innocently, "You okay?"

Not bothering to look up, Jonathan shrugged. "I guess." A more angry part of him wanted to scream, to shriek that it was obvious that he wouldn't be okay. But the rest of him felt tired and apathetic, and he didn't really feel like moving or speaking or caring.

_Watching his older cousin with an almost childish concern, Tyler added quietly, "If it's any help, me and my mom know what you're going through, kinda."_

The angry voice reared up once again, longing to wring his neck as he begged to know how exactly he would know what it was like to lose everything in a single night. But once again, Jonathan suppressed it.

"_How?"_

_Softly, Tyler murmured, "My dad died three years ago. I mean, I don't know what it's like to lose my mom, and I've never had a brother, but I do know what it's like to lose a dad."_

Jonathan stared at Tyler, finding himself both curious and surprisingly sympathetic, "How'd it happen?"

Looking down at the table, Tyler's voice became almost robotic. "He had a heart attack in the middle of the night. We took him to the hospital, but there was nothing they could do. He died in the emergency room while me and my mom waited outside."

In spite of himself, Jonathan felt his heart go out to his cousin. It was obvious from his mechanical tone of voice to the way he stared dully at the empty space that he still felt the sting of losing his father. Softly, Jonathan replied, "I'm sorry."

_Seeming to snap out of a trance, Tyler blinked a bit before shrugging. "S'okay. Nobody knew it was gonna happen. And Mom's getting better about it."_

"It must have been bad for her."

Tyler nodded mournfully. "She kept crying a lot for the first couple of weeks. Then she never cried, which was even worse. She'd just shut herself up in her room and sit there, and she'd never talk or look happy."

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Tyler added, "She's gotten better, though. She cries every now and then, but that's it."

Not completely sure how to respond, Jonathan merely let out a small, "Oh," before lapsing into silence. Tyler eventually returned to scribbling across the looseleaf, and the two stayed in a sad stillness until Helen returned.

----------

_Because the bodies were being used for the arson investigation, as well as the difficulty involved in getting relatives out to Tennessee, the funeral wasn't held until January 3rd. Jonathan barely seemed to notice the days speed by, still lost in a dream world of regret and sadness. When the day of the funeral came, he almost hadn't expected it._

_Even though he vaguely remembered his aunt speaking of relatives and family friends coming, Jonathan was still shocked to see the amount of people in the Church of St. Dymphna as he filed in behind Helen and Tyler. Off to one side were a group of people with vague similarities to his father, while off to the other side was a group that had features similar to his mother's. Scattered amongst the pews were people from around town: neighbors, co-workers, acquaintances, and others. The simultaneous murders of the three family members, as well as the disappearance of Anna the same night, had caused quite a stir in the town. Jonathan supposed that was the reason they came: the spectacle of a triple homicide, as well as the fear that they might be next._

_Helen led the two boys to the front of the church, and the three of them sat at the pew closest to the altar. The other mourners noticed the arrival of the last member of the Crane family, and a larger number of them started to make their way towards Jonathan. _

_Because the police had kept the bodies for the arson investigation, there had been no wake for the three Cranes. As such, the other mourners hadn't yet had the chance to speak consolingly to the one person hit hardest by the events. Jonathan knew that now was the time they'd be taking the opportunity to do so, and he braced himself._

_Sure enough, a long line of people soon formed, and every person on it took turns shaking his hand and expressing their condolences. Jonathan went through the whole process in a daze, learning to simply nod his head in response to whatever they said. It might have meant more to him if he actually knew who most of these people were. He'd never met any of his relatives until his parents' deaths, and he honestly didn't understand why any of the people from around town actually cared._

_Eventually, the line of people had run out, and it was time for the service to begin. A gray-haired priest entered, along with two altar servers, and thus began a sequence of readings and hymns._

_Jonathan watched the proceedings with a detached confusion, never having been to a funeral and not having set foot in a church since he was a toddler. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what was going on, but Jonathan could only think of all the Sundays when his mother would pretend to take her sons to church before dropping them off at the movies and going off to spend time in the arms of strange men. Whatever kind of religion Jonathan might have had was abandoned when his mother decided to use God as a way to commit adultery._

_The words that came out of the priest's mouth were lost on Jonathan's ears; Jonathan paid very little attention to what he said. He didn't concentrate on any of the readings or the hymns, either, since he didn't know any of the stories or the songs. Instead, he pretended that Jackson was hiding somewhere in the church, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal himself as a living, breathing human being. Perhaps he was lying under a pew, or sitting inside a confessional, or squeezed inside the tabernacle. Maybe he was waiting outside, staring through the stained glass window, smiling with glee at how easily they'd believed he was dead._

_But Jonathan knew. He'd seen that it was Anna's body they'd retrieved from the house. And Jackson would come back. He had to._

_The priest began to say a few words about the deceased, and it became very clear that he never met any of the three people he was supposed to be eulogizing. Jonathan supposed that even if he'd asked some of the attendees for help beforehand, they wouldn't have many things to say…or, rather, many positive things. Hell, if they'd asked Jonathan to say anything (thankfully, they'd left him alone), he wasn't sure if he could bullshit well enough to make them sound like a happy family._

_The priest spoke for a few minutes, glossing over vague descriptions of the three dead Cranes, choosing instead to lament the fact that they had all died young. When he had finished, a small string of people came up to give eulogies for the deceased. Not surprising to Jonathan was the fact that he'd never seen any of them before in his life._

_First was a bearded man who claimed to be his father's brother, who reminisced about what an honest, hard-working man Frank Crane had been, reciting various instances of such values at work, the string of recollections ending when his father hit his twenties. Then a woman named Sylvia came to speak. After saying that she'd known Selena Crane since childhood, she went on to recite a list of happy memories that cut off abruptly at Selena's eighteenth birthday. _

_Jonathan smirked, knowing full well that his mother had gotten pregnant when she was eighteen and his father was twenty. Whatever tight bond those two claimed to have with his parents must have been cut off when they went off and got Selena knocked up, and the rift probably wasn't helped by his parents' self-imposed isolation regarding relatives. Still, the hypocrisy of having them deliver their eulogies was almost unbearable._

_Last to get up was Jonathan's grandfather, familiar to him only through a dusty photograph that had been kicked around his house for years. He began a speech on regret: regret that he hadn't been closer to his daughter and her husband, regret that they'd died so young, regret that he'd never had a chance to meet his eldest grandson._

_Jonathan shook his head, letting his mind wander. Regret, regret, regret. No one realized their mistakes until it was too late to do anything about it. If they'd wanted, every single person in that church could have been close to his family. If they'd wanted, they'd have known the Cranes well enough to give more than a half-assed eulogy._

_And if he'd wanted, Jonathan could have stopped himself before shooting his mother._

_But it was too late. The past was set in stone, and there was no flipping over the hour glass to fix the mistakes they'd made. They would carry their regret until they no longer cared, or until there was no longer breath in their bodies._

_As his grandfather reiterated his sadness over the loss of his grandson, Jonathan vaguely wondered when Jackson would reveal it was all a joke. Would it be at the end of the eulogy? At the end of the entire funeral, when people were about to file out of the church? When they went to the graveyard, where they'd gaze at headstones with no bodies beneath them? How long would it take?_

Feeling his chest tighten as he thought about his brother, Jonathan sunk into a daydream. He pretended that Jackson was sitting next to him, hiding in plain sight from the funeral-goers. He was grinning mischievously, his casual T-shirt and jeans a sharp contrast to the uptight black that everyone else wore. Leaning back in the pew, he crossed his legs and looked over at Jonathan.

"_**This has to be the most boring thing I've ever been to."**_

Jonathan nodded, feeling the tedium and boredom that hung in the air. Looking over at the altar, Jackson added, "Think I should try to spice things up?"

Not even waiting for a reply, Jackson stood up on the pew, waving his arms in the air as he yelled, "Hey! Over here! Look, it's a ghost!"

Jonathan, thinking this was the silliest thing he'd ever seen in his life, began to feel laughter well up inside him. Leaning over so that his head was practically between his knees, Jonathan began to giggle uncontrollably, mad laughter pouring out of his mouth in a frenzy.

_Distantly, he could hear Helen's voice quietly ask, "Jonathan…?" He tried to reply, but he couldn't stop the giggles escaping from his lips. A few seconds later, he could feel her arm on his back, and he could only guess that she thought he was sobbing._

_After a minute or so, Jonathan sat upright, his laughing fit over and his expression sober. Luckily for him, if anyone but his aunt had heard him, they didn't show it. Instead, they continued with the funeral proceedings as normal._

_Looking at the space next to him, Jonathan could see Jackson smirking._

"_**Think they saw me?"**_

_When the funeral ended, Jonathan watched quietly as everyone filed out of the church, heading to their cars so they could drive to the cemetery. Very few people spoke, and not a single person seemed to cry. The whole church was filled with an awkward kind of sadness; they all knew that they should be upset, but were unable to muster up much heartache._

_Jonathan stayed where he was, sitting calmly in the pew until the church seemed almost empty. He would have stayed there for hours if he hadn't felt a hand on his shoulder and heard his aunt's voice saying, "It's time to go."_

Without looking up, Jonathan stood and left the pew, Tyler and Helen following close behind him. As his aunt and cousin briefly genuflected in front of the altar, Jonathan glanced around the Church of St. Dymphna, drinking in the sight of the house of worship he'd supposedly attended all his life. The stained glass windows, the holy candles, the baptismal font, the small statues of the saints…lastly, his eyes rested on the strange man dangling on the crucifix, looking down at Jonathan with sad eyes.

_Helen got up and clasped Jonathan's shoulder, and the three of them exited the church in silence. As they entered the bright sunlight outside of the church, Jonathan couldn't help but think that, as he hung helplessly on the cross, the man had looked very much like a scarecrow._

----------

It was a Friday evening when Jonathan stormed into his apartment. Jackson barely even looked up as he came in, having gotten used to his angry entrances by now. Instead, he continued to read his novel, and when he looked up to see Jonathan looming over him, he practically jumped in his seat.

"Yes?" he inquired dryly.

"I need to talk to you," Jonathan said flatly.

Jackson rolled his eyes and sat back in his seat. "So I figured. Is it about anything specific?"

Jonathan gave Jackson an icy look before answering, "I need you out of this apartment tomorrow night."

Jackson blinked. "You're kicking me out?"

Jonathan shook his head quickly. "No, no. I meant that I need you out of the apartment for a half-hour or so tomorrow night."

Visibly relieved, Jackson nodded. "Ah. And what would be the special occasion?"

Jonathan bit his lip, trying to figure out how to phrase his words carefully. After a few seconds' consideration, he said, "One of my colleagues…"

"Oh-h-h-h boy…" Jackson groaned, covering his eyes with his palms, already knowing whom Jonathan was talking about.

Even though his vision was blocked by his hands, Jackson could clearly envision the mixture of irritation and embarrassment on his brother's face. It certainly showed in his tone of voice as he reprimanded him. "Jackson, for once in your life, could you shut up for a second?"

Sighing and removing his palms from his eyes, Jackson said, "Fine. So what were you saying about dear Dr. Warren?"

Jonathan's annoyance became more apparent as he testily replied, "We're going out tonight, and he needs to pick something up here afterwards. I highly doubt he'd react well to a fugitive being harbored here."

Drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa, Jackson remarked, "So you're trying to be a big boy and go on a date unsupervised?"

"Jackson, I swear to…"

"Do I need to give you a talk about the birds and the bees? About how boys sometimes think dirty thoughts, and you have to try and be as pure as snow…"

"_Jackson._"

"Need a condom?"

"_Jackson!"_

Jackson knew that Jonathan was royally pissed, but he still felt a kind of glee as his brother's cheeks flushed a bright red. Deciding that it would be dangerous to push his brother any further, Jackson asked, "What time do you need me out of here?"

"Seven-thirty," Jonathan snapped.

"Fine. I'll be gone by then, and I'll leave you two alone."

Calming down somewhat, Jonathan replied, "Good." Running his fingers through his hair, he added, "Take my cell phone with you, and I'll call you once he's gone home."

Mentally picturing the two doctors together, Jackson sincerely hoped that Leon would be gone as soon as was humanly possible. "Fine."

----------

That night, as he turned the key to his apartment door, Jonathan silently hoped that Jackson hadn't decided to be a wiseass and stay in the apartment. But when he swung open the door, he was relieved to find it empty, with no signs that anyone lived there but himself.

Leon, standing behind him, followed Jonathan inside and glanced around. "Nice," he said, but it was fairly obvious that he was lying. Jonathan pocketed his key, then indicated that Leon was free to sit on the sofa, which he did.

Walking to the kitchen, Jonathan called back to Leon, "Would you like a drink?"

"What've you got?"

"Um…" Peering into his refrigerator, Jonathan could only see a single, half-empty bottle of Canada Dry. "Is ginger ale alright?"

Jonathan heard some light laughter coming from the den. "Sure, ginger ale sounds fine."

Reaching up, Jonathan opened the door to one of the kitchen cabinets before reaching for two (small) glasses. Pouring out the drinks, he made a mental note to see if he could blackmail Jackson into doing some grocery shopping.

He hadn't exactly been truthful when he'd told Jackson why Leon was coming over. Leon didn't need to pick anything up, and Jonathan hadn't been planning on establishing a time limit, despite what he might have said to his brother.

Truth be told, he liked going out places with Leon. He'd enjoyed their past outings, and he found himself looking forward to the next time they'd meet. They got along well, and it was nice to have someone to talk to. Jonathan hadn't had that in a while, not since he'd started college.

Besides, Leon seemed to take an interest in him, which was a nice change of pace. Everyone else at Arkham either ignored him or tried to suck up to him. Nobody else ever actually paid attention to what he was saying, though he'd been happy to accept that as his lot until Leon had come along.

There was still the question of why exactly Leon seemed to take such an interest in him, but Jonathan was enjoying himself enough that he didn't really need to know the answer.

He and Leon had just seen a new play that was being performed in a theater downtown. He'd known that they'd be out late, and he'd wanted to be able to offer Leon the option of grabbing a drink at his apartment. Some small part of his mind nagged at him, asking him why he would want to do that, but he'd managed so far to push it aside, not really wanting to explore deeper motivations for his every action, even if he _was _a psychiatrist.

Walking out to the den, Jonathan sat in a chair next to the sofa and handed Leon his ginger ale. Leon accepted it gratefully, sipping at it politely. After Jonathan took a gulp from his own glass, Leon asked energetically, "So how'd you like the play?"

Jonathan shrugged. "I didn't particularly like it."

Leon grinned. "But what's not to love? It's about singing, dancing, homoerotic vampires. Where can you go wrong?"

Jonathan laughed a little before setting his drink down and excusing himself. "I'm just going to see if there are any messages on my answering machine." Leon nodded, and Jonathan strolled into his bedroom to look over at his phone, wondering if Ducard or one of Falcone's henchmen had called. But the machine displayed a bright number zero, so he supposed not.

From his room, he could hear Leon wandering around the den. While Jonathan was checking the machine, he heard Leon inquire, "Hope you don't mind me asking, but do you have a roommate?"

Jonathan's pulse quickened and he froze where he stood. Did Jackson forget something? "…yes. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I just saw this note on the counter, and I figured…"

Striding quickly out of his room, Jonathan saw Leon standing in the entrance to the kitchen area, holding a Post-It note in his hand. Taking it, Jonathan scanned the tiny piece of paper. Sure enough, it was in Jackson's handwriting, and had obviously been left for him to find when he came to the apartment with Leon.

"_Jonathan-_

_Went out, took your cell phone with me. Have fun, sweetie! I want all the details when you get home.  
_

_Love and kisses, J._"

Feeling his cheeks start to burn, Jonathan swore he was going to have Jackson murdered when he got home. He could already hear his brother's cackling laughter ringing through his ears.

Sighing in exasperation, Jonathan crumpled up the yellow paper and walked over to his trashcan, dumping it in with the rest of the garbage.

Tentatively, and with a tone that tried to conceal just how curious he was, Leon asked, "Girlfriend?"

Jonathan shook his head, looking over at Leon. "Not a she."

Strangely enough, this didn't seem to take the edge out of Leon's voice. "So…it's a guy."

Icily, Jonathan replied, "My brother."

Leon blinked, and suddenly his demeanor became much more relaxed. "Oh!" He smiled abruptly, teasing, "Your brother always leave notes like that?"

"He's a freak of nature," Jonathan replied bitterly. Leon laughed.

Leaning much more casually against the wall, Leon commented, "And here I was, thinking you were some sort of pimp, with women leaking out of every room."

Jonathan gave Leon an incredulous look. "A _pimp_?"

Chuckling, he replied, "Of course! Everyone knows it's always the quite ones who spend their nights parading their women up and down the streets. Hell, all you need is the hat."

Shaking his head in amused disbelief, Jonathan replied, "I'll be sure to shop around for one."

"Wear it to work. That'd go well."

Jonathan broke down and laughed a little as he envisioned himself strutting through Arkham, covered in metal jewelry. It was an odd image, to say the least.

Walking back to the den, Leon remarked, "I must say, I'm disappointed. No swinging bachelor pad, no whores lining the streets, no girlfriend handcuffed to your bed…really, what a letdown."

Sitting down, Jonathan replied, "Well, it's a boring apartment. It's only me here."

"And your brother."

"…him, too."

Leon smiled a little, an unreadable expression in his eyes. Jonathan hardly noticed it, choosing to gulp down the last of his ginger ale. When his glass was empty, he stood up again, saying, "I'm going to get a refill. Do you need any more?"

Leon shook his head, so Jonathan went into the kitchen and poured the last of the Canada Dry into his glass. When he walked into the den, he looked towards where Leon had been sitting, but was surprised to see Leon standing not far away from the entrance. Jonathan blinked before setting his glass down, preparing to ask Leon if there was any specific time that he needed to be home.

When he looked up from the counter however, he found the younger man standing even closer to him than before. He was about to open his mouth to speak when Leon's lips were suddenly pressed against his own, the ends of his hair brushing over Jonathan's face.

Not having expected this, Jonathan's eyes remained wide open, not daring to kiss back or even move. It was only a second or so later that Leon pulled away, obviously noticing the lack of enthusiasm on Jonathan's part. Scanning Jonathan's face, Leon could see the stiffness with which he'd reacted. Stammering, Leon's cheeks suddenly flushed red. "I-I'm sorry."

When Jonathan didn't immediately reply, Leon's face fell, his cheeks still red with embarrassment. He reached for his things, preparing to leave as he muttered, "I shouldn't have done that, I shouldn't have…"

He was cut off when Jonathan grabbed his wrist. Turning back to look at him, Leon's eyes were wide and questioning. Jonathan took a step towards him, leaning forward slightly as he did so.

He used his right hand to push a stray strand of hair out of Leon's eyes, and he let his fingers linger on the silky strands as he leaned down and pressed his lips against Leon's own. Leon closed his eyes slowly, responding earnestly to Jonathan's touch.

His fingers still entwined in Leon's hair, Jonathan could feel Leon's hands pressed against his back, drawing him closer. He pulled out of the kiss to take in some air, and could feel Leon's eyes boring into him. Smiling a little, Jonathan pressed his lips to Leon's neck, sucking a little on the flesh underneath as he felt Leon's hands travel downwards across his back. He could feel the younger man's heart beating quickly, the rhythm in his chest soothing and warm. As Leon's hands moved underneath Jonathan's shirt, working the fabric upwards, Jonathan kissed Leon's jawbone and then turned his attentions elsewhere. Leon pressed his forehead against Jonathan's chest, smiling.

Jonathan began pulling the buttons on the front of Leon's shirt, stopping only to remove the fabric from his own chest as Leon pulled it upwards. When Leon's chest stood exposed in front of him, he ran his fingers across the warm flesh, his heart pounding and his mind whirling.

Leon reached for the button to Jonathan's pants, unhooking the fabric with ease before working on the zipper. Jonathan stopped him, taking his hands in his own and leading him out of the den and into his bedroom. They had barely made it inside when Leon yanked his hand away and pushed Jonathan down onto the mattress. Landing on his stomach, Jonathan flipped himself over to see Leon climb on top of him, his warm body feeling soothing against Jonathan's skin.

Smiling, Jonathan wrapped his arms around Leon's waist before pulling him down onto the mattress. When Leon landed, Jonathan used it as an opportunity to put himself on top, and it wasn't long before both men had been stripped from the waist down.

Not a word passed between them, but that didn't matter. They were enjoying themselves too much to care, and when they had finished, they both couldn't help but grin slightly as they lay together on Jonathan's bed.


	12. Lambs to the Slaughter

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Lambs to the Slaughter_

_Beckoning Sal and Jackson to enter Kevin's…well, not really anymore…office, Guiteau sat down in a swivel chair behind a large metal desk. Cautiously, Sal and Jackson both sat on folding chairs across from him, trying not to glance over at their bleeding comrade blocking the doorway._

_Addressing them as though this were the most casual of business meetings, Guiteau started the conversation by saying, "So…I believe that you must be one Mr. Salvador, and you are…" He frowned a little as he looked over at Jackson. "You are…"_

"He's a new recruit," Sal supplied. "We picked him up while on assignment in Tennessee."  


_Guiteau nodded. "Ah. And what was it that brought you to Tennessee?"_

Shifting in his seat, Sal began, "Well…" He was interrupted by a distinct rattling noise, followed by a shuddering sound. Guiteau, not even glancing towards the direction of the sound, ordered Sal, "Continue."

"Well, we were in Tennessee for the Anna Napolitano case, and…" Once again, Sal was interrupted by the shuddering sound.

_Jackson tensed. Without even turning his head, he knew what it was. Kevin's last breaths were shakily resounding through the tiny office, and Jackson couldn't help but feel disturbed by the presence of a dying man only a few feet away._

_Guiteau frowned, reaching for something in his desk as he commanded, "Continue."_

In a thin voice, Sal continued, "We read in the local paper that a twelve year-old boy had been sent to the ER in critical condition because of a local teenager, so we decided to investga-…" Sal hesitated when he saw that Guiteau had pulled a pistol out of the desk drawer. Gulping, he continued, "Investigate, and we found Jackson. We watched him for a while, and we decided that he'd be a good candidate for employment."

Undoing the safety, Guiteau asked, "Did you test him?"

"Yes, we…"

Sal was cut off when Guiteau reached across the desk and pulled the trigger, shooting Kevin squarely between the eyes. The rattling sound stopped, and after a few seconds of silence, Guiteau smiled pleasantly. "And?"

Sal, looking somewhat pale, resumed with, "We asked him to be the one to carry out the assignment."

The smile faded from Guiteau's lips, leaving him with a stern…and dangerous…expression. "You did what?" he asked evenly, his temper barely evident in his voice while being completely obvious on his face.

_Growing paler, Sal repeated, "We had him kill Anna Napolitano…"_

Slowly sitting up in his seat, Guiteau stated slowly, "You left the fate of an assignment in the hands of a teenager, one whom you had only discovered a few weeks prior? Is that it?"

His breathing shaky and his palms sweaty, Sal added, "He completed the assignment successfully, no one caught him, they don't even know where the body is…"

"Which is to his credit, not yours," Guiteau stated icily, his demeanor unchanged as a deadly undertone seeped into his voice.

_Jackson glanced back and forth between the two men, feeling almost as anxious as Sal did. Although he was grateful that Guiteau had decided to spare him his wrath, he was still shaken by the swift, casual way with which Kevin had been disposed. Would Sal meet a similar fate?_

Reaching the peak of desperation, Sal practically yelled, "I was under orders! Kevin was my superior, and when he decided to use Jackson, it was his call to make! It wasn't my place to disagree!" Seeing Guiteau frown slightly, Sal reiterated, "I was just following orders!"

Jackson watched the two men curiously for the next several seconds as all three of them sat in a heavy silence. He braced himself, figuring that Guiteau could shoot Sal at any second if he liked.

_In the end, though, it seemed that Sal had struck gold as Guiteau quietly murmured, "You were just following orders." His anger seemed to diminish, but a strong dislike appeared to remain. "Very well. If you were not in charge, then I cannot hold you accountable. However…" With this, he gave Sal a pointed look. "I am your new superior officer, and you will answer to me from now on. And I will not tolerate recklessness. Do you understand?"_

Sal nodded rapidly, the color slowly returning to his face. "Of course, of course."

"_Out," Guiteau ordered, and Sal didn't waste any time getting up and striding to the door. Jackson had also stood up and was about to follow him when he heard Guiteau say, "Not you. Stay here for a minute."_

Turning around and returning to his seat, Jackson looked at the man across from him curiously. The stern expression had vanished from his face, and he looked somewhat more jovial.

"_So…you were able to complete the assignment successfully, it seems."_

Jackson nodded slowly, wondering if this were some sort of trap and, if so, how he would deal with it. Surprisingly, though, Guiteau's admiration seemed sincere.

"_Well, if you were able to complete such a task without error, then you should be a valuable asset to the organization. How old are you?"_

"Sixteen," Jackson answered in a dull voice. Guiteau smiled. "Very good. And your name is Jackson?"

Slowly, he nodded. "Yeah…"

Guiteau nodded in return. "Very good, then. I hope to see great things from you." Indicating the door, he said, "You may go if you wish. If you have not been assigned a room yet, just take room 18-5."

Jackson quickly mumbled a thank you, then practically sprinted out of the room and over Kevin's dead body. He continued his rapid pace until he found room 18-5. As soon as he reached it, he ran inside and quickly shut the door behind him, panting heavily as he did so.

_As he caught his breath, he slid down to the floor, still reeling from his meeting with Guiteau. It had shocked him, the ease with which Kevin had been disposed. He'd known that this was a job for trained killers but he hadn't quite anticipated the effortlessness with which they could take out one another._

_Swallowing hard, Jackson tried to suck it up. Instead of thinking of Kevin, his body still blocking the doorway to what was once his office, he focused on the room before him. There wasn't much to it; it was about the same size as his room back in Tennessee, but he had no roommate to share it with this time. It had some basic furnishings: a cot, a small desk, a chair, a lamp, a shelf. _

_There was a small, translucent window on the opposite wall. When he saw it, Jackson numbly made his way towards it, suddenly wanting to see a glimpse of the outside world. Peering at it, Jackson tried to look out to see what visions the view would present him. But the translucence of the glass made everything a blur, and eventually, Jackson gave up._

_Lying down on the cot, Jackson shut his eyes, wondering if he could fall asleep mid-afternoon. When he realized that he didn't feel the least bit tired, he sighed and opened his eyes, staring at the bare ceiling above him. Without thinking, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out Anna's string of rosary beads._

_Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers over the plastic beads and the blood-stained thread. While his fingers memorized its contours, Anna's voice came to him from the depths of his memories._

"He told me that if anyone ever tried to hurt me, it would send an angel to protect me…"

_Almost feeling a sense of disgust, Jackson threw the beads against the opposite wall, not even watching as they gracelessly fell to the floor._

_Rolling onto his side, he shut his eyes and kept them that way, not moving and not caring if he fell asleep. He stayed that way for hours, and would remain undisturbed until he was awoken the next morning._

-----

_B-r-r-i-i-i-n-n-g!_

Rolling over on his mattress, Jonathan ignored the ringing phone, not caring if anyone wanted to talk to him. Ducard or Falcone or Rachel Dawes or whoever the hell it was would have to wait. He was riding a wave of euphoria, and he felt as though the rest of the world could go to hell, for all he cared.

From the bathroom next door, Jonathan could hear the shower running. Leon was in there, and if Jonathan listened carefully, he could hear him singing Bohemian Rhapsody into the running water. It seemed like the sort of bizarre song that he'd sing.

_B-r-r-r-i-i-i-i-n-n-n-g-g!_

Lying on his side, Jonathan pressed his ear into his pillow, letting his head sink in while he happily ignored the ringing phone.

In spite of his usual demeanor, Jonathan felt giddy as he lay there, waiting for Leon to exit the shower. He closed his eyes as though he were going to fall asleep, but he knew that the energetic feeling coursing through his veins would keep him awake.

He was happy. Unmistakably, undeniably happy. How long had it been since that had happened?

When Leon had kissed him, he'd been surprised for sure. It had been abrupt, and he hadn't had time to prepare himself. But he hadn't been upset. If anything, he'd enjoyed himself. And he'd continued enjoying himself throughout the rest of the evening as well.

Leon was not his first lover, nor was he his first since Jackson. There were several points throughout college and medical school that, for one reason or another, Jonathan had ended up in bed with some girl or guy that he barely knew and didn't care for. Ever single time, Jonathan had gone through the motions, trying to enjoy himself as his mind became clouded with images of Jackson.

As much as he tried to forget the things for those few months before they'd been separated, it was impossible to erase those memories. Every time he had sex with someone else, he couldn't help but think that he was damaged goods. Even as his partner seemed to enjoy him or herself, Jonathan would be caught up in the memories of things he'd done that he regretted. In his mind, he was a last resort. Jackson would never have done the things he did if he'd had someone else to focus his attentions on. But girls wouldn't touch him, so he turned to the one person that he knew wouldn't refuse.

He'd wanted to say no. Every single time that Jackson had touched him in a more than brotherly manner, every time that he's looked at him in a more than friendly way, he'd wanted to say no. But he was weak. He idolized his big brother, and could never bring himself to refuse Jackson anything. So he would tolerate their trysts, not saying a word as he was filled with disgust and shame. He had eventually resigned himself to what they did; he would even go so far as to enjoy it, at least in the physical sense. Emotionally, he was a train wreck.

In his mind, he felt some of the blame for what was going on. After all, Jackson couldn't have known that his brother felt so ashamed of what was going on. Jonathan had never given any indication that he wanted to refuse, and Jackson wasn't a mind reader. How could he have known?

_B-r-r-r-r-i-i-i-i-i-n-n-g!_

Jonathan's train of thought was interrupted when the phone rang once again. He pressed himself down into the mattress, feeling its warm comfort as he listened to Leon ask Scaramouche if he'd do the fandango.

A smile crept into the corners of Jonathan's mouth. On the one hand, there was Jackson and all the other lovers he'd had. On the other, there was Leon.

Jonathan liked Leon in a way that he hadn't expected to. When he'd first met him, he'd planned on considering him a colleague, one slightly more tolerable than everyone else on the Arkham Asylum staff. But Fate had intervened, and Falcone had needed a testimony, and they'd gone out for coffee. And so, things changed.

While he was with Leon, he felt none of the shame or regret that he had with the others. Leon genuinely seemed to like being with him, both sexually and otherwise. And he had a friendly, easy-going way about him that Jonathan was drawn to.

There was another aspect to it that had less to do with Leon. The two doctors had met after Jackson's arrival, which may have had something to do with Jonathan's reduced reluctance towards spending time with Leon. Whatever stigma he'd once attached to his sexual relationships seemed to dissipate as Jackson repeatedly acted like a jackass. It seemed like rebellion, in a way: he would stop caring about what they'd done together to make up for Jackson's increasingly overbearing behavior.

_Bri-i-i-i-n-n-n-g!_

Beep.

"_Hello, you've reached the residence of Jonathan Crane. I'm not at home right now, so please leave a message after the tone."_

"_Scarecrow, I know you're there, and if you don't pick up, I swear I'm gonna…"_

Jumping as he realized that it was Jackson speaking to him, Jonathan hastily reached for the phone and held it up to his ear, quickly saying, "Hello?"

"_There you are. Why didn't you pick up?"_ He sounded irritated. Jonathan swallowed and tried to think of an excuse.

"I didn't hear it."

"_Liar,"_ Jackson stated accusingly. _"What's going on over there? Did he leave yet?"_

Feeling more on edge than annoyed, Jonathan replied, "Leon's still here, Jackson."

"_I thought you said he would only be there for a few minutes."_

Shifting so that he leaned on his elbow, Jonathan countered, "I was wrong. We…we got to talking, so…"

"_Great. Just great."_

Looking at the time, Jonathan asked, "Where are you?"

"_Downtown. I'm outside one of the subway stations."_ Sure enough, Jonathan could hear one of the subway rails creaking as a set of wheels clanked along it. Sighing, Jonathan said, "Just walk around for a while, I'll call you once he's gone…"

"_What's that noise?"_

Jonathan was somewhat taken aback. Jackson's voice was sharp and accusing, though Jonathan honestly couldn't tell what noise he was talking about.

"Jackson, I don't hear anything."

Jackson's voice was stubborn, insistent. "_That noise, in the background. It sounds a little bit like static…"_

"Jackson, maybe it's a bad connection. I'll call you later…"

"_Scarecrow, I'm telling you, it's…is that the shower?"_

Jonathan blinked before mentally smacking himself. The shower. He quickly tried to cover himself, stating as calmly as he could, "Jackson, I think we just have a bad connection…"

_"That's it, isn't it? And why exactly would we need the shower running on a social call, Scarecrow? Something to do with dear Dr. Warren?"_ Jackson's voice wavered a little with the realization, and Jonathan noticed that it sounded as though his temper were rising. Trying to placate him, he said, "Jackson…"

"_Fuck it. Just fuck it._"

"Jackson, it's just the phone line. We have a bad connection…"

"_Don't feed me your bullshit!"_ Jonathan, surprised by his outburst, didn't even try to reply. Instead, he just lay there with the phone at his ear, listening as Jackson attempted to calm himself.

After a few seconds, Jackson's steady breathing could be heard on the line, and he slowly said, "_Don't bother calling me. I'll see you in the morning."_

And with that, Jonathan heard nothing but a dial tone.

"Who was that?" Jonathan turned his head to see Leon standing in the doorway. He had a towel wrapped around his waist, and was dripping water all over the bathroom tiles.

Putting the phone back in its cradle, Jonathan replied, "My brother."

Leon smirked. "The freak of nature?"

"The one and only."

Leon laughed lightly as he climbed onto the mattress, settling next to Jonathan. Lying down with his head resting next to Jonathan's pillow, he absentmindedly twirled a strand of Jonathan's hair. "Does he know what's going on over here?"

Putting his head down next to Leon's, Jonathan answered, "He heard the shower running."

Nestling next to Jonathan, the top of his head underneath the older man's chin, Leon murmured, "And he figured it out?"

Wrapping an arm around Leon and pulling him closer, Jonathan nodded. Leon sighed. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Was he mad?" Leon asked abruptly, still nestled against Jonathan.

Deciding to lie once again, Jonathan shook his head. "He didn't care too much."

Even with Leon's face pressed up against his chest and out of view, Jonathan could tell he was smiling. "Good."

-----

Striding angrily down the streets of downtown Gotham, Jackson could feel a headache beginning to form, a dull pain pounding against his skull with an insistent ferocity. Pushing past people without caring if he knocked them over, he kept on walking purposefully and angrily, even though he had no idea where he was going.

As he made his way down the busy sidewalks of downtown Gotham, Jackson pored over his earlier exchange with his brother, feeling even more enraged as he tried to remember the details of their conversation.

Jonathan had lied to him, of that he was certain. And he'd lied about being with…_him_. One Dr. Warren, the most irritating member of the Arkham Asylum staff, and the current bane of Jackson Rippner's existence. And there was no doubt in Jackson's mind that they'd done it; Jonathan may have tried to cover for them, but Jackson could detect liars better than most.

Even as he stormed along the paths of the city, Jackson tried to convince himself that it didn't matter. It didn't matter what was going on between Jonathan and Leon because it wasn't his business. He didn't care what the two of them did. _He didn't care._ In fact, because he didn't care, he kicked over five trashcans during his rampage.

Spotting a tavern, Jackson strode over to it, figuring that there was nothing that couldn't be cured by near-alcoholic behavior.

Striding past the bar, barely glancing at any of its patrons, Jackson made his way towards the restroom. As soon as he found it, he swung the door open with a bang before walking towards one of the mirrors dangling above the sinks. When he reached it, he stared at his reflection; a tanned man with badly colored brown hair and dull gray eyes stared back morosely.

Still pissed, he ripped the wig off of his head and removed his contacts before slamming the items into a handy trash can. He then tore a long string of paper towels out of the dispenser before scrubbing his face of any and all makeup layering his skin.

When he'd practically rubbed his skin raw, he looked back at the mirror to see, for once, the face of Jackson Rippner.

There. Much better.

He glanced around the restroom to see if there was anyone else around to witness his transformation. There was no one immediately visible, though there was a lot of groaning coming from one of the stalls, beneath which there were _two_ pairs of feet.

Ignoring whatever the hell was going on back there, Jackson stalked back out to the bar. In his moody state, he didn't care if anyone recognized him…if anyone did, he would simply gut them and be done with it.

Luckily for everyone, the bar was dark and hazy, so the likelihood that anyone realized who he was diminished greatly. And most of the patrons seemed to care only for themselves and attractive members of the opposite gender, so the chance that anyone would recognize him as the infamous Jackson Rippner was lessened even further.

As the sound of painful caterwauling hit his ears, Jackson realized (to his utmost horror) that he'd stumbled into a karaoke bar. Sure enough, as he glanced around, there was a dimly lit area where a girl was trying (and failing) to sing a rock song.

"_And if it's the last thing I'm ever gonna do_

_I'M GONNA GET YOU…"_

Feeling his headache grow stronger by the second while the bad singing murdered his eardrums, Jackson strode purposefully towards the bar, the need for alcohol increasing. As he sat down on a barstool, the girl stepped down and handed the mike to a svelte gamine, who began to coo Bobby Goldsboro's "Honey".

"Guinness," Jackson barked at the bartender, who, upon noticing the irritation of his patron, immediately reached for a glass.

As the bartender handed him his drink, Jackson mulled over the events of the evening. Jonathan had lied about why Leon was coming over, that was for certain. But Jackson wasn't sure if he had planned for the more…athletic activities of the evening. Considering that Jonathan had the sexual energy of oatmeal, Jackson guessed no. So it must have been Leon's idea, Leon's persuasiveness that led to it…

Feeling his headache worsen, Jackson took a long wig of beer in the hopes of getting very, very drunk.

To his right side, Jackson could hear a feminine voice ask, "Seabreeze, please?". Turning his head excitedly, Jackson was almost surprised to see that it was the karaoke singer from before, leaning on the counter while she sat on the stool next to his. In an odd way, Jackson felt crestfallen.

The bartender nodded. "Sure, no problem."

Karaoke Girl smiled. "Thanks." Drumming her fingers against the counter for a few seconds, she seemed to stare off into space as Jackson returned to his drink, taking large swigs that he hoped would make him forget what he knew was probably going on back at Jonathan's apartment.

He'd have wallowed in his misery some more if he hadn't heard the same feminine voice ask him, "You ever been here before?"

Turning to look at Karaoke Girl, he asked, "What?"

Over the din of the music, she asked again, "You ever been here before, or is this your first time?"

Not particularly caring, Jackson shrugged. "First that I can remember."

The girl smiled slightly. "Same here. My friend dragged me here, and last I saw her, she was giving some guy a blowjob in the bathroom."

That explained the noise back there. Jackson chuckled. "Sounds like a party to me."

Taking her drink from the bartender, Karaoke Girl replied, "Probably is for them, too." After taking a sip from her Seabreeze, she held out her hand to Jackson. "Name's Cecilia."

Blanching a little, Jackson reached out and shook hands. "Name's…Jonathan."

Grinning, Cecilia asked, "And what do you do, Mr. Jonathan?"

Praying that no one personally acquainted with his brother would somehow appear, Jackson smoothly answered, "I'm a doctor."

Cecilia gave out a low whistle, obviously impressed. "And what kind of doctor are you?"

Taking another gulp from his glass, Jackson replied, "Psychopharmacologist. I get to deal with the insane all day long."

Crossing her legs and leaning her elbow on her knee, Cecilia countered, "So do I. I work as a cashier."

Jackson actually caught himself laughing at that. "Really."

"Trust me, you haven't seen crazy until you've seen seventy year-old women screaming at you from their wheelchairs that you forgot to scan their fifteen cent coupon."

As she laughed at her own joke, Jackson quickly looked over the woman sitting next to him. She was wearing one of those dresses designed to flatter the legs, which was unfortunate, since Cecilia's legs weren't one of her better features. She was far from being petite, her limbs sturdy and thick where other girls' were lithe and graceful. But she had a thick shock of red hair that flattered her face, and there wasn't a single flaw on her pale skin. Plus, she had nice tits.

Even though she had only just sipped her drink, Jackson could tell she was somewhat inebriated. She'd probably had some drinks before she sat down next to him. Her eyes were starting to get glassy, and her breath reeked of booze.

Cecilia looked back at Jackson, and when she did so, he noticed something else about her: crystal blue eyes. They seemed to take him by surprise, and for a second or so, he was reminded of his mother, and the rage from before welled up inside him.

As Cecilia sucked on the straw of her drink, Jackson heard the music change dramatically. Turning to look towards the karaoke area, it seemed that a brunette version of the previous singer had taken the stage, and in a few seconds, she began to belt "Son of a Preacher Man".

Looking back the woman sitting next to him, Jackson noticed that he glass had been sucked dry. Looking up at her face, he could see that her eyes had grown glassier than before. With faux concern, he asked, "You okay?"

Smiling dumbly, she said, "Yeah, fine. I had a few of these before, so …" As the bartender was about to pass her, she stopped him, asking, "Another Seabreeze?" He nodded.

Looking back at Jackson, she repeated, "I'm fine, really."

Jackson smirked. _Like hell you are._

When her second Seabreeze arrived, Cecilia abandoned the straw altogether and finished her drink in only a few gulps. Jackson watched with interest, poring over memories of another drunken woman with glassy blue eyes. Rather than enraging him, as it had before, Jackson felt increasingly malevolent as he toyed with ideas in his head.

The next minute or so was silent between the two, the vodka coursing through Cecilia's system as Jackson watched curiously. Cecilia would glance over at him every few seconds, mistaking his attention for romantic interest. Jackson made sure that his expression gave every indication that this was so.

Abruptly, Cecilia stood up awkwardly, announcing, "I'm gonna go. My friend prolly left already..."

Jackson was somewhat surprised that she was still speaking fairly clearly. Shaking his head slightly, he mused, "An unarmed, inebriated girl walking down the streets of Gotham in the middle of the night by herself…doesn't sound particularly safe to me."

Twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers, Cecilia murmured, "Well, maybe I need someone to walk me home and protect me."

A dark look crossed Jackson's face, one which Cecilia seemed to be unaware of. "…is that an invitation?"

She smirked lamely. "Maybe." And with that, she turned on her heel, stumbling only slightly as she strutted her way out of the building.

There was a few seconds in which Jackson sat there, simply chuckling quietly at a joke that no one had said. When he had finished, he composed himself and stood up and looked towards the exit. A dangerous look in his eyes, Jackson stalked out of the bar, joining the drunken Cecilia at the sidewalk, where she had been waiting for him.

About two hours later, Jackson found himself in a dingy alleyway, looming over Cecilia's corpse as it sat against the opposite wall. Her pretty blue eyes were no longer there, or rather, not where they were supposed to be. Jackson had managed to gouge them out carefully, putting the remnants in each of her palms, her legs spread-eagled where she sat. The back of her head was a mess, blood seeping out onto the wall where Jackson had smashed an umbrella handle into her skull.

He smiled. It was like art.

As he used her jacket to wipe the blood off of a knife he'd stolen from her kitchen, Jackson addressed Cecilia's corpse as though it would respond.

"It's too bad, really. You were a fun fuck…even if you did pass out in the middle."

Tossing the blood stained jacket off to the side, Jackson pocketed the knife as he stared down at Cecilia's body with disgust. He was about to walk away from her, acting as casual as he could, when he stopped. Turning on his heel, he strolled back over to the body and spat on it. Feeling satisfied, he carelessly strode out of the alley and onto the streets of Gotham.


	13. Acid Trip Mentality

Alright, folks, I apologize for the fact that this chapter is kind of boring, but I've really got no choice. The flashback and real-time stuff are kinda necessary for the plot to work, even if it they are kinda dull. But whatever. I promise, more good stuff is to come.

By the way, I forgot to mention this at the beginning of last chapter because I was in something of a rush: if you look through the scene with Jackson at the bar, you can find three things:

1: An allusion to Jackson's namesake

2: An allusion to another role played by Cillian Murphy

3: An allusion to the literary version of the role from #2

Cookies to anyone who can find them!

By the way, just to avoid any potential confusion: I am well aware that Ducard and Ra's Al Ghul were one and the same, but I'm pretty sure that Jonathan wasn't. After all, Ducard didn't tell Bruce Wayne about that particular secret, and he was about to be inducted into the League of Shadows. Jonathan, however, was _not_ a member, and they didn't even let him in on the real reason for poisoning the water supply; they just told him that they planned on holding the city ransom. Basically, my guess is that he really wasn't in the know for these things.

Well, that was a long author's note. Anyway, onward!  
-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Acid Trip Mentality_

Eventually, Leon was forced to go home, but not before Jonathan promised that, yes, he was fine with what had happened, and yes, he had enjoyed himself.

After Leon had exited and hailed a taxi, Jonathan showered before collapsing back in bed and promptly falling asleep. The next morning, when he awoke, he found Jackson sound asleep on the sofa as usual.

The next day went by as Jonathan's Sundays usually did. He woke up early, went to a local store, and bought a copy of the paper (with the headline: "_BRUTAL SLAUGHTER IN GOTHAM: Police have no suspects in the bizarre murder of a local woman")_. After buying a croissant and some coffee, he headed home and read all about some woman getting bludgeoned and then torn open in the downtown area.

Later in the morning, Jackson woke up, and went about his normal routine of eating whatever was left over in the fridge as a meal. Surprisingly, he didn't mention the previous evening at all, and was cordial to Jonathan whenever he spoke. Even better, he kept his pleasant attitude for the rest of the day, with nary a foul word or perceptive taunt. But it was a restrained kind of politeness, as though there were more he wanted to say and ask, even as he stopped himself from opening his mouth.

Jonathan didn't mind Jackson's change in attitude; if anything, it pleased him. Gone were the usual knowing insults and the cocky jeers. Jonathan realized that the switch in behavior was probably temporary, but he enjoyed it while he could. It didn't seem to bother him at all that the reason for this change was because he'd caught his brother in bed with another man.

That Monday, Jonathan's day at work went by as usual. He saw patients, he did paperwork, he made sure that the water supply was successfully being contaminated, etc. When he saw Leon in the halls of Arkham, they greeted each other with a polite nod and nothing else. No one would ever suspect that there was anything more to them than perhaps a casual friendship.

And so the days after that night went on without much occurrence. And when the next weekend came, Leon and Jackson went out to a few places, and they went back to Leon's apartment, and they had sex. Jackson was left back at Jonathan's apartment, where Jonathan could only assume he was sulking and brooding.

But Jonathan was wrong.

Jackson was making plans.

-----

_The day after the funeral, Jonathan found himself on an airplane with his aunt and his cousin, his ears popping and eyes boggling at how frigging far they were from the ground. However, for the most part he managed to endure the experience, only seeming to react when an imaginary Jackson made more jokes about the Mile High Club than most people could invent in a year. Helen and Tyler, for the most part, didn't seem to notice Jonathan's seemingly random laughter mid-flight…at least until a stewardess stopped to ask if there was a problem._

_By the time they'd reached Helen and Tyler's house, Jonathan had gone from being giddy with laughter to sinking into a numb sort of indifference. It barely occurred to him that the house he was entering was easily more than twice the size of his former abode, or that he would be calling such a place his home. Instead, he spent his first day there wandering emotionlessly from room to room, not even seeming to realize that his legs were carrying him from one place to another._

_For the first few days, Tyler and Helen left him alone. From what Jonathan could gather through whispered conversations in rooms that he stood outside of, they reasoned that he was still in mourning, and that they just needed to let his grief run its course. Within time, he'd be able to move on. Not really caring or understanding why it mattered, Jonathan was at the very least grateful that went unbothered, preferring to be alone._

_Slowly, Jonathan observed the day-to-day goings-on in the Bouvier household as he was slowly sucked into their routine. In the morning, everyone woke up, showered in turn, and got dressed. Tyler would grab a bus to school, Helen would leave mid-morning to do errands before returning in time for Tyler's return, and they would all eat dinner together before going to bed at an appointed hour._

_At another time, Jonathan might have resented the way his time was suddenly restricted, how he had to suddenly adjust to living with a schedule when he'd never had a single hour of his life planned out for him before. But he merely let this change in his daily life sweep over him, not really caring much and not giving a shit where he went or what he did._

_In spite of his lack of concern, Jonathan slowly began to learn about his aunt and cousin. It seemed that Mr. Bouvier had been a wealthy man, leaving behind a neat sum of money upon his death. There was evidence of it everywhere, from the nicely furnished house they lived in, to the expensive private school Tyler attended (which Jonathan was grimly aware he would eventually have to go to), and the fact that Helen easily supported them without holding a job._

_The one thing that Jonathan saw that knocked him out of his apathy and made his heart ache the most was the close relationship he observed between Helen and Tyler. It was foreign to him, the way they spoke in friendly tones towards each other, the way they genuinely seemed to enjoy each other's presence, the fact that they really did seem to care about each other the way mothers and sons were supposed to._

_The bond the two of them shared was stronger than that of most thirteen year-olds and their mothers. Watching them, Jonathan could see just how hard they'd been hit by the death of Mr. Bouvier. In the absence of a husband and father, they had clung to each other tightly, realizing that they only had each other._

_Watching them, Jonathan would feel his chest tighten as he thought about what could have been and what had never happened. He had never been close to either of his parents, and even on their best days, they were never even close to cordial. He had never cared about his parents, and he could only wonder if they had ever cared for him._

_But he tried not to feel jealous of his aunt and cousin. After all, he reasoned, they had suffered badly. One had lost a father, and one had lost a husband. Who could fault them for growing close to the only family member they had left?_

And besides, just as they had each other, Jonathan had Jackson.

_Because he didn't want to grieve, because he didn't want to feel the pain that accompanied loss, Jonathan pretended. He pretended that Jackson was there, that wherever he went and whatever he did, Jackson would follow him and always be there for him. It made things easier; why mourn for someone who was right there?_

He would talk to Jackson sometimes, when he knew no one could hear them. It would always be about trivial, everyday things, with a silent agreement made to never let their conversations become too serious. And Jonathan would imagine Jackson responding to him in the ways that he had back at home, with a joke or a jeer or even just a shrug of the shoulders. And in some strange way, it was a comfort to Jonathan.

_Soon, though, Jonathan started to let himself forget that he was pretending. He would talk to his brother and not remind himself that it was all a fantasy, and would become so wrapped up in the illusion that he barely seemed to notice the world around him. For hours, sometimes, he would sit inside the room that Helen had given him, silently exchanging words with a person that was hundreds of miles away._

_It was only a matter of time before he truly, honestly began to believe that his brother was with him, that he had never been left behind by his older sibling. The fact that no one else seemed to see Jackson did little to deter his fantasies; all it meant was that he could keep his brother a secret to himself. He could keep Jackson all to himself, and no one would ever bother them._

_But it was only a matter of time before his aunt and his cousin noticed that Jonathan didn't seem to be getting better, and that his odd behavior seemed to be growing increasingly bizarre. They had been concerned about him from the start, not sure how to handle the boy who wanted nothing more than to be left alone and to wander around aimlessly. But their worries increased as Jonathan seemed not to hear them when they spoke, and not even see them when they entered the room._

_He would stare off into space, wherever he was, oblivious to the world as he watched something that no one else could see. Even as he sat in silence, he would make facial expressions as though reacting to someone or something. Sometimes he'd laugh or smile, or he'd nod or shake his head, or simply seem to change faces without rhyme or reason. At first, they only wondered vaguely as what was going on; as time progressed and it happened more and more frequently, they grew worried._

_After about a week of odd behavior, Tyler decided to talk to his cousin, concerned about how he was handling all that had happened. Walking into the kitchen, where Jonathan was sitting at the table as he had for the last several hours, the younger boy barely managed to whisper, "Jonathan?"_

Not hearing him and not even sensing him presence, Jonathan stared at one of the other chairs, seeming to smile a little before suddenly frowning at the empty air. Tyler tried again, calling a bit louder, "Jonathan?"

Nothing again. Jonathan seemed to be shaking his head slightly, still frowning at the nothingness in front of him. Tyler decided to try shouting, with no attempts to be subtle as he called, "Jonathan!"

Still nothing. The frown turned back to a smile, and suddenly Jonathan was giggling like a madman, the empty air having apparently said something funny. Tyler stood there for a moment, not sure what to do. Then, on a whim, he sat down in the chair that Jonathan was staring at.

_This seemed to completely throw Jonathan for a loop. For several seconds, he just sat there, alternating between looking at Tyler with wide eyes and blinking rapidly. After a moment in which he seemed completely confused, he looked up at his younger cousin._

"_Hello," he said cordially._

_Tyler nodded. "Hello, Jonathan."_

Sitting up in his chair, Jonathan asked, "What's going on?"

Tyler looked at him seriously, stating quietly, "I just wanted to see how you're doing. If you're okay."

Jonathan shrugged, his attitude somewhat cheerful. "I'm perfectly fine. Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, your family died two weeks ago."

_Jonathan blinked for a second, as though slightly confused, before merely shrugging resignedly._

_Tyler, noting this, said carefully, "You've been acting really weird lately. I mean, I know it's gotta be tough, but you've been doing some really strange stuff."_

Jonathan cocked his head to one side. "I have?"

"…yes."

Tyler looked Jonathan straight in the eye, trying to figure out if he was just making fun of him or whether he was truly serious. Try as he might, Tyler couldn't find a trace of mockery or ridicule in his expression. He just seemed…confused. Satisfied and confused.

_Sighing, Tyler said, "Look, I understand that you're sad about your mom and dad and…"_

He stopped when Jonathan seemed to scoff. "What?"

Looking at him wildly, Jonathan said, "I don't miss them at all. They never gave a crap about me, and I don't give a crap about them."

Not quite sure how to take this, Tyler continued, "Well, I know you must miss your brother, right?"

Jonathan blinked. "Why should I be?"

"…because he's dead. He died two weeks ago."

For some reason that Tyler couldn't even begin to fathom, Jonathan suddenly broke out into a grin and began to guffaw heartily. Shoulders shaking as he leaned his elbows on his knees, Jonathan just kept laughing and laughing and laughing, much to Tyler's bewilderment. Tyler tried to ask what was wrong, but Jonathan cut him off as he shrieked, "You're sitting on him!"

This certainly perplexed Tyler. "What?"

"You're sitting on him! Here you are, trying to pretend he's dead, and you're sitting on his lap!"

As Jonathan roared with laughter, Tyler watched him dismally and with a puzzled expression on his face. As convinced as Jonathan seemed to be, Tyler was pretty sure that he didn't have a teenager under his ass. Watching his seemingly insane cousin, Tyler has absolutely no idea what to say or how to react.

_As his laughter slowly subsided, Jonathan barely managed not to giggle as he spoke. "You've all been telling me that he's dead, that he's gone, that he's not coming back." Leaning towards his cousin, Jonathan managed to whisper, "But you're wrong. He fooled you, don't you get it?"_

_When Tyler said nothing, Jonathan's expression became deadly serious as he hissed, "Jackson never died."_

-----

"You need to go to Florida," Ducard intoned quietly as he paced the floor in front of Jonathan.

Jonathan, sitting on a small wooden chair, seemed mildly surprised by this abrupt announcement.

"Is there a reason why?"

Ducard nodded solemnly. "I've already told you that Ra's Al Ghul will be coming to Gotham, correct?"

Jonathan nodded. "Yes, you mentioned it several weeks ago."

"He will be arriving in Florida from Bhutan in a few days, and he'll be bringing his men for the last phase of the operation. I need you to meet him there and arrange for transportation to Gotham, as well as accommodations for them until the end of the operation."

Jonathan frowned slightly. "I'm not sure I understand why…"

Silencing him with a wave of his hand, Ducard continued. "Ra's Al Ghul and his men are considered fugitives in the eyes of the law, and had to use bribes to gain passage to the United States. They have no identification, and no legal right to be in this country."

Shifting his gaze towards Jonathan, Ducard added, "But you have leverage with Carmine Falcone, and people in Gotham will respect that. You are able to strike deals with the people working at the airport, or the bus stations, or the hotels. Do you understand now?"

Jonathan mulled over this, eventually nodding slowly. "When are they coming?"

"They'll be arriving in five days," Ducard replied.

"Where?"

Ducard looked back at Jonathan before responding. "Miami International Airport."


	14. Talking and Yelling

Here's a really lo-o-o-o-ong chapter for all of you. Have fun.

I was kinda rushed posting this, so I apologize for any spelling or grammar errors there are. I really don't have time to edit this further.

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Talking Is Therapeutic (Yelling's Even Better)_

"So…you need to go _where_?" Jackson asked his brother as Jonathan paced the floor.

"The asylum's sending me to Miami for a few days," Jonathan said simply, hoping that Jackson wouldn't see straight through his lies. It had only been one day since he spoke to Ducard, but he was already somewhat anxious about the whole thing.

Leaning back where he sat on the sofa, Jackson asked, "Is there any particular reason _why_ they're doing that?"

Jonathan sighed. "They want me to meet a potential donor to the asylum. He's insisted on speaking to at least one of the hospital's practicing doctors, and the asylum stands to benefit significantly from this man's financial contributions."

Jackson arched an eyebrow. "Really now." Sitting up a little, he added, "Well, considering that I'm on every Do Not Fly list in the country, I suppose you'll want me to stay here while you're gone?"

"Yes. Just don't do anything particularly idiotic while I'm gone."

Not even gracing that with a response, Jackson asked, "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow night. The board's decision to send me was very short notice." Running his fingers through his hair, he added, "I'll stay there for a day or two, and then I'll take a red-eye back."

Mulling over this, Jackson nodded slowly before asking nonchalantly, "What hotel are you staying at?"

Jonathan frowned. "Why do you want to know?"

Shrugging, Jackson attempted to look as uninterested as he possibly could. "No reason."

-----

"Miami?" Leon asked incredulously as he walked with Jonathan out of Arkham Asylum three days later. "Why do you need to go there?"

Jonathan sighed. "Death of a distant cousin. I barely knew him, but my relatives really want me to come to the funeral."

Leon nodded understandingly. "Family comes first." Grinning slightly, he asked, "I'm not gonna find out you're hiding a wife and kids down there, am I?"

Smiling a little, Jonathan shook his head. Leon laughed. "Just thought I'd check."

As he fumbled for his keys, Leon asked, "So when will you be back?"

"A day or two. I'll call you when I get ba-…" Jonathan trailed off as he noticed that Leon was frowning as he looked at something in the distance. "What's wrong?"

Leon didn't respond, seeming to squint at something across the parking lot until his eyes suddenly grew wide. "Oh no…"

Leon hurried over to the other end of the lot, Jonathan following him closely. Jonathan wondered what was going on, and was about to ask when Leon came to a dead stop in front of his car.

Jonathan peered over Leon's shoulder to get a look at what the problem was. As soon as he got a good look at the car, his eyes widened in disbelief.

For the most part, Leon's car looked like it always did: clean and neat and respectable. But it was several inches closer to the ground than usual, because the air had been let out of all its tires. And the doors on one side were a complete wreck, with three words scratched in large, bold letters across their surface:

"DIE FAG DIE"

-----

_The first two years that Jackson lived in Miami were spent training to become a certified killer. For a while, he thought it was ridiculous, considering that he'd already pulled off a difficult kill. But he quickly learned that nothing was left to chance in the organization, and failure was a fate worse than death._

_It quickly became clear how the Children of Hades' headquarters was able to pass as a youth center. At any give time, there would be thirty to fifty different trainees in the building, all of whom were teenagers. By contrast, there were never more than twenty or so adults around at any given day._

_Training at CoH headquarters was very hands-on; there was nothing even close to the classrooms of a normal high school. And most normal high schools certainly didn't hand out weapons to their students on a daily basis._

"_Classes" (if they could even be called that) consisted of a randomly selected member of the organization teaching a topic selected on a whim. Sometimes it would be the handling of some kind of weapon, how to impress a potential hostage, or how to beat the crap out of one another. Needless to say, many "classes" ended with bruises and blood._

_These classes were haphazard in their scheduling, and there was really no organization regarding who taught and what they would instruct the trainees. In the end, it was just assumed that trainees would know the basics by the time they turned eighteen._

_One thing that became obvious as Jackson underwent training was that the Children of Hades was an all-male organization. He once asked one of the employees why this was so, and received a long rant about two women who fucked up the assassination of Gerald Ford. Jackson immediately stopped listening, though the basic message was clear: women were considered unfit for this kind of work._

_Jackson was quickly able to sort out which of his fellow "students" were actually trainable, and which were doomed from the start. Strangely enough, most of the recruits seemed unfit for the work required of an assassin. _

_There were several rather wussy fighters that seemed to have made it in on a fluke. They were pretty obvious, from their excessive bravado, complete lack of fighting skills, and their squeamishness when it came to the prospect of killing people. One particularly unfortunate recruit actually fainted at the sight of blood._

_Then there were those whose killing spirit was based on some sort of quest for personal justice. They had the regrettable tendency to assume that they'd be slaughtering others for some kind of righteous cause, rather than for financial gain._

_And lastly, were the really sick ones, who turned murder into some sort of fetish. They had absolutely no regard for speed, discretion, or sense of neatness when it came to their targets. Jackson was severely disgusted to discover at least three necrophiliacs and six cannibals among the trainees._

_There was very little amiability among the trainees, which was to be expected in such a group. Almost everyone there undertook their classes with a competitive ferocity that Jackson couldn't help but partake in. Most of the trainees regarded each other as enemies, as competition on their way up the ladder to success. Slackers were never tolerated._

And those that did slack off at training?

They were the first ones to disappear.

_It took Jackson a few weeks to figure out why the number of trainees at any given time seemed to fluctuate so sharply, and why there was such a high ratio between trainees and actual employees. There were times when trainees would screw something up completely, or would attempt to be a wise-ass to one of the instructors. The next day, they would be gone. There would be no farewell, no sign that they were gone except for bleats of gunfire from behind the building in the middle of the night, and the smell of burning coming from the basement every now and then._

_It was then that Jackson truly understood how training worked. It was a desperate struggle for survival, and the stakes were high. Failure was not an option, because it meant swift, merciless death. It was really just a test to see if trainees would live long enough to reach age eighteen and employment._

_Jackson only barely made the cut. He found out early that he was not particularly skilled at firearms, something that could have been fatal to Jackson's career as an assassin. Somehow, though, he managed to survive, compensating for his lack of skill with firearms with his natural talent using anything with a blade, as well as a favorable attitude from Guiteau (who was still impressed by his handling of Anna Napolitano)._

_Still, he couldn't help but tense every time a group of employees raided a trainee's room and dragged him outside, followed shortly by the sounds of bullets being fired. And he couldn't help but feel relief every time it wasn't him._

_In the end, the selection process was brutal. When Jackson first arrived at the Children of Hades headquarters, there were at least twenty or so trainees set to be promoted the same year as him. When he did finally become an employee, only two others joined him._

-----

Jackson barely even noticed the sound of the slamming door or the footsteps storming into the apartment, choosing instead to focus on his paperback copy of Macbeth. So when Jonathan's hand smacked it from out of his fingers, he was slightly startled. Looking up to see Jonathan looming over him, he dryly stated, "Good evening to you, too, Scarecrow."

But Jonathan didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes, his face completely humorless as he asked, "Were you the one that did it?"

Jackson frowned slightly, confused. "Did what?" he asked, with a perplexed look on his face.

"Did you do something to Leon's car?"

Jackson tried to figure out if Jonathan was being serious. Deciding that he seemed to be, he answered, "No. What, did pigeon shit land on it or something?"

"Don't make jokes about it!" Jonathan barked back, obviously upset. Jackson was a bit surprised, and he wondered what had gotten his brother so worked up.

"Alright, then, what happened?"

Running his fingers through his hair, Jonathan muttered, "Someone let out all the air in his tires and they keyed a message into the doors."

Jackson frowned. "What'd it say?"

Jonathan paused. After a few seconds of deliberation, he slowly stated, "Die, fag, die."

Jackson blinked, not having expected that, but not really caring what happened to Leon's car. "Huh."

Jonathan turned on him, anger apparent in his face. "You _did_ do it, didn't you?"

Jackson sat up straight, beginning to get irritated with his younger brother. "I did not."

Jonathan walked right up to him, his face contorted with anger and his fingernails digging into his palms. "It _must_ have been you! No one else knows about..."

"Your little nighttime rendezvous?" Jackson supplied, finding his brother's irritation to be somewhat humorous. "What makes you think no one else knows?"

Pacing back and forth as his frustration mounted, Jonathan answered harshly, "Who else could possibly know? You were the only one I told…"

Jackson stood up, feeling a flare of annoyance at his brother's accusations. "First of all, you didn't tell me _anything_. I _figured it out_. And if I managed to, what makes you think that one of your precious coworkers hasn't? Or that dearest, darlingest Leon didn't spill the beans?"

Jonathan shook his head, not willing to acknowledge any logic in his brother's argument and already completely convinced of Jackson's guilt. "Leon wouldn't do that, he wouldn't…"

"And why not? Just because you're naïve about these things doesn't mean_ he_ isn't. Hell, tons of people might know that he's gay, even if _you_ didn't until last week."

Jonathan shook his head more feverishly, refusing to let his brother sway his judgment. "Don't change the subject. You were the one that did it, didn't you?"

Exasperated, Jackson practically yelled, "I already told you, I had _nothing_ to do with it!" Sighing, he added a little more calmly, "Does that sound like something I'd do? Honestly?"

Just as exasperated as Jackson was, Jonathan replied, "I don't know! You spent thirteen years _killing_ people! Why on earth would graffiti be such a stain on your morality?"

"Exactly! Why would I do graffiti if I've been a murderer for so long? If I wanted to do something to get at him, all I'd need to do was grab a knife and…"

Cutting his brother off, Jonathan hissed, "Don't even _kid_ about something like that!"

Still frustrated, Jackson exclaimed, "Why are you so angry at me? I've told you several times already, I had _nothing_ to do with what happened!"

"I'm angry because Leon's car…"

Finally losing it, Jackson interrupted by shrilly yelling, "_That's not it!_ You've been angry at me ever since I arrived here, and you're just using this as another excuse for it!"

Pushed to the brink by his brother's words and feeling the pressure of thirteen years of pent-up emotions, Jonathan practically shrieked, "Why _shouldn't_ I be angry? What on earth makes you think I have no right to hate you?"

Jackson was slightly taken aback by his brother's outburst, though he did his best not to show it. He opened his mouth to respond, but it seemed that Jonathan wasn't quite done talking yet.

"What _ever_ made you think that I would be happy to see you? You killed our parents! You set our house on fire! You completely screwed up everything, and you did it all for what? A thousand dollars!"

Jackson frowned, noticing an error in Jonathan's logic. "Back up a second. _I_ killed our parents?"

Jonathan looked at him for a second before falling silent, knowing full well what he meant and what he'd say.

Seizing on his brother's muteness, Jackson continued, "Because I seem to remember that _you_ pulled the trigger on our _dear_ mother, not me."

Anger renewed, Jonathan snapped, "I wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you. If she had kept screaming, you'd have been found out. I did it to keep _you_ from getting caught!"

Jackson tried not to laugh, smirking as he noted, "Really? Because I also seem to recall that _you_ were standing over the bodies as well. Are you sure that you didn't do it to save your own ass, as well?"

"I'm not lying!" Jonathan shrieked. "You think I wouldn't have done it to protect you? To stop you from getting arrested for slaughtering two people?"

Face contorted with anger, Jackson replied, "What's all this about 'slaughtering', Scarecrow?"

"You _murdered_ two people, Jackson!"

"I'm well aware of that fact, but why in the hell are you acting so haughty about it? You're no saint either, Scarecrow."

Jonathan's facial expression stayed the same, but he was silent for a few seconds, as though considering this. Eventually, he managed to reply, "I may have done some things back then, but I have never been as bad as you."

This time, Jackson wasn't sure if he should laugh at the sheer idiocy of his brother's logic or be angry at his brother's hypocrisy. "Are you kidding me, Scarecrow? Do you honestly think you're somehow morally superior?"

"I may have killed Mom, but I've never…"

"Oh, don't feed me that _bullshit!_" Jackson yelled, finally losing his temper with his younger brother. "You are such a damn hypocrite, do you know that? You think you don't have sins on your head, that you don't have blood on your hands?"

When Jonathan said nothing, Jackson continued, rage emanating in his voice. "You think I haven't seen you? You already know that I've followed you around, and you think I didn't notice all of the things that you try and pull in broad daylight? I've seen you meet with Carmine Falcone, you know. I've seen you agree to lie and cheat and steal for him. And don't think I don't know about your little poison, either. You think I didn't figure it out after what you did that first night? You _torture_ your patients." Looking at his brother condemningly, Jonathan hissed, "I may be a murderer, but you're a torturer, Scarecrow. So don't you _dare_ act so damn innocent."

Jonathan bit his lip, obviously still angry. "You still killed people. You killed an innocent girl, you killed our father…"

Fed up with his brother's self-righteousness, Jackson hissed, "Oh, _please._ You're just angry because _you got left behind_."

There was a long pause in which neither of them refused to speak. They looked at each other fiercely, each still angry and each still convinced that they were in the right.

Finally, Jonathan broke the silence, stating bitterly, "Yes, you're right. I was angry that you left me behind. Why shouldn't I be upset that my brother abandoned me, leaving me with no home, no family, _nothing_?"

Jackson chuckled sadistically. "What _house_? What _family_? All you had was a shack, the two people who just happened to be responsible for your birth, and absolutely no chance over ever getting out of that hellhole of a town."

"And you think that excuses what you did?"

"_Yes_!" Jackson exclaimed. "Scarecrow, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but we were never, _never_ going to leave that town. We were going to live our lives just like our father did: with crappy jobs, shacks for houses, wives that hated us, and kids that wouldn't even care that we were alive."

Looking at Jonathan with what he hoped was a sincere look on his face, Jackson resumed his tirade. "Can you blame me for taking that job? Can you blame me for wanting to get away from that town, for wanting to take that opportunity?" Gesturing towards Jonathan, he added, "Do you think you'd be here if I hadn't done what I did? That you'd be head of a hospital, that you'd be living in a nice apartment, that you'd be making at least three times what our father did?"

Jonathan didn't reply. Jackson stared at him for a few seconds before slowly saying, "You may think I'm an evil bastard, but you're sitting on the spoils. You benefited from our parents' deaths, admit it. There is no way you'd be here if you'd stayed in Tennessee, so don't delude yourself into thinking otherwise."

Breathing heavily, Jonathan countered, "That doesn't excuse anything. You couldn't have known we'd end up like this."

"Well, I knew things weren't going to improve in _that_ shithole, that's for sure." Jackson exhaled before stating sardonically, "Good 'ol Tennessee, land of the rednecks, hillbillies, and a state full of inbreeders."

"Well, you'd certainly know about inbreeding, wouldn't you?" Jonathan stated icily. Jackson arched an eyebrow, knowing full well where this conversation was headed.

"Angry about that, too?"

"Possibly," Jonathan stated coldly. Jackson simply scowled, tired of Jonathan's attitude and tried of his never-ending list of grievances.

"What, are you going to tell me that I'm a rapist, that I somehow hypnotized you into dropping your pants? I'm not sure if you're aware, but generally, sex requires two people."

"We should never have done it. After that first time, we should have stopped."

Gesturing widely, Jackson responded, "But _we_ didn't, did we? And I'm afraid what's done is done, Scarecrow! I'm not saying we should be proud of it, but we can't exactly change the past. All we can do is get over it."

Outrage renewed, Jonathan yelled, "You can't just _get over_ something like that!"

"Yes, you can! I have!" Looking at his brother calmly, Jackson stated, "But I suppose that's the difference between the two of us. You thought there was some sort of emotional attachment to it, but I thought you were just a cheap lay."

With icy eyes, Jonathan spat back, "_No_, the difference between us is that you're the only one who couldn't get anyone to fuck him but his brother."

Jackson made a _tsk_-ing noise, folding his arms over his chest to show how little he cared for this conversation. "Touché, Scarecrow, touché."

Seeming to try to stop himself from exploding into another rage, Jonathan hissed, "You stand there and act so nonchalant, as though this meant nothing! Yet I've spent the last thirteen years trying to 'get over it'. You think it's _easy_? You think it's easy, going to a funeral for your entire family, watching your house burn down, living your entire life knowing that you killed your mother and you fucked your brother?"

Tone softening slightly, with his anger still evident, Jonathan continued, "Every day, I'd hear them say that you were dead, that you'd died and were never coming back. And I knew they were wrong, and I'd tell myself that every single time they said. But now? Now…sometimes…"

Without thinking, Jonathan blurted, "Sometimes I wish that you _had_ died in that fire!"

A long pause greeted that sentence, one in which neither brother spoke. Jackson's face became stony and cold, while Jonathan's eyes widened as he realized that he'd gone too far. They stood there quietly, Jackson enraged and Jonathan afraid.

It was Jackson who eventually broke the silence. "Your plane leaves tonight. You should get going."

Jonathan, an almost apologetic look on his face, murmured, "Jackson, I…"

Losing his temper once more, Jackson snapped, "Just go."

With that, he stormed out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him as he left.

-----

_As Jackson became versed in the ways of the organization, he slowly became more familiar with the people who lived and worked inside of CoH's headquarters._

_At the bottom of the ladder were, of course, the trainees. One level above them were the laymen. They constituted the majority of the adults living inside of the building; they all had different skills, and each one of them was as tough as nails. They were the ones that carried out the specifics of assignments, and they all had different jobs they were assigned to. Some were hit men, some were experts at gathering intelligence, some dealt with hostages and other necessary non-members, a few were translators, etc. There was some leniency regarding who did what; a hit man on one job might be a negotiator on the next. But on specific assignments, each person's role was clear, so that it was easy to determine who was responsible for success, and who was responsible for failure._

_Above the laymen were the managers, such as Sal. They were the ones in charge of organizing and executing the various operations. For every assignment they were given, they'd gather one or a group of laymen together, depending on how many people were needed and what exactly needed to be done. Then they would plan out everything, and they were in charge of seeing the plans come to fruition._

_Above the managers was Guiteau, and only Guiteau. He was in charge of everything, from which managers received which assignments, to what supplies were needed for each job, and which employees and trainees were "disposed of". He was also the only connection between their headquarters and the rest of the organization._

_For a while, Jackson was skeptical that there even were other branches, until their building became overwhelmed by new assignments. Suddenly, Guiteau was "borrowing" agents from other branches, who would babble in foreign tongues as they provided aid for various assignments. And when things slowed down, these other agents would disappear, and other branches would "borrow" Miami employees for assignments in other areas of the world. Agents would come back talking about the heat in the Middle East or the attitudes of Europeans. Right after Jackson became an employee, Guiteau himself flew out to Mexico to participate in the assassination of Luis Donaldo Colosio._

_When he finally made it past training and into employment, Jackson was joined by only two other trainees: one name Ray and another named Laurence._

_Ray gave off the appearance of a puppy dog, with wide brown eyes and fluffy blonde hair. Jackson remembered sizing him up early on and deciding that it was only a matter of weeks before they'd be dragging him out to the streets to be shot. He wasn't particularly vicious, and he didn't revel in the ferocity with which the other trainees hated each other. If anything, he was downright polite to everyone else, and Jackson had to wonder how in the hell he'd been recruited in the first place._

_But it turned out that Ray was very much the kind of killer that the organization was looking for. He followed orders without questions, and only partook in violence as he was ordered to, rather than engaging in it needlessly. The innocent look he had about him was perfect for getting people to trust him, which was a handy skill in their line of work. Plus, the kid was one of the best shots among all of the trainees. And there was a latent, potent ruthlessness underneath his well-mannered demeanor. Apparently, one of the managers had recruited him after he garroted his stepfather in his own backyard._

_The other trainee, Laurence, had no innocent appearance about him, and he seemed proud that no one would ever mistake him for a guiltless soul. He resembled a snake, from his thin, lithe body to his cold eyes to the venomous way he spoke to others. Unlike Ray, he reveled in cruelty and blood, and had arrived in Miami an expert on all kinds of obscure weaponry. Luckily for him, he had the good sense not to overdo his love of gore. He knew enough not to sacrifice agility or discretion for thrills, and was quite good at not getting caught for his crimes._

_Since they were all graduates at about the same time, the three of them were often put together for the same assignments. They generally had small jobs for their first few years of employment: destroying evidence, manipulating targets, causing "accidents", etc. As such, they entered a kind of reluctant partnership with each other: although they didn't consider themselves "friends", they knew that, at the very least, they were compatible._

-----

It was a few hours after Jonathan had left that Jackson heard his brother's cell phone ring as he sat in Jonathan's apartment. Knowing well enough not to pick it up, he vaguely wondered how Jonathan had managed to forget it when he was going to be gone so long.

Eventually, the ringing stopped, and Jackson simply watched the tiny piece of machinery, both curious and cautious. After about twenty seconds, he picked it up, holding it to his ear as he hit the button to play messages.

There was a loud beep, and then a familiar voice began to speak piercingly into Jackson's eardrum.

"_Hey, Jonathan. It's me, Leon. Just letting you know, I went down to First Precinct to report what happened to my car. Turns out, about five other people on that street reported the exact same thing. Some asshole must be having some fun with his keys, right?_

Anyway, I know you're probably still on the plane. Call me when you get down there, okay? I'm gonna be home all night, so just give me a ring."  


With that, a robotic voice announced the time, and Jackson pried the phone off of his ear.

So Leon would be home all night, hm?

Mulling over this, a wide grin broke out all over Jackson's face. Striding over to the briefcase where he kept all his disguise equipment, he practically felt giddy.

Maybe he should pay Dr. Warren a visit.

-----

As Jonathan stood in line by the front desk to his hotel, he couldn't help but feel irritated. He was annoyed at the bitchy couple in front of him, at the incompetent employee attempting to soothe them, at that baby who hadn't stopped crying on the entire plane ride to Miami, at Jackson, at the world, at himself, at _everyone_. It was not a good way to start his trip to Florida, but he was beyond being cheered up at this point.

When the bitchy couple did finally go away, he stalked up to the desk with a scowl on his face, though this did nothing to deter the cheerfulness of the girl behind the desk.

"Welcome to Lux Atlantic Resorts, my name is Cynthia. How may I help you?"

Handing over his reservation confirmation slip, he said, "I have a reservation for a single."

After tapping away at the desk computer for a few seconds, Cynthia perkily replied, "Alright then, Mr. Crane, you're all set. Your room is 1015." Handing over his room key, she added, "If there's anything I can do, just let me know."

"Sure," he said as he reached down to grab his suitcase. As he did so, he looked over to see a brunette woman standing off to the side of the lobby. She seemed to be staring at him, her face contorted in what appeared to be anger. But what had he done for her to be mad at? Jonathan ignored her and grabbed his suitcase. He was about to walk away when the girl behind the desk asked, "Say, do I know you from somewhere?"

He looked at her with a confused expression. "Excuse me?"

"You seem familiar. Have you come here before?"

Jonathan shook his head, still annoyed and wanting only to get to his room. "This is my first time in Miami."

Slightly crestfallen, Cynthia said, "Oh." Perking up, she chirped, "Well, in any case, enjoy your stay."

As he walked towards the elevator, Jackson glanced back to where the brunette woman had been standing, wondering if she was still glaring at him. But when he looked back, she had vanished.

He didn't remember the strange woman from the lobby until later, when he walked down the halls of the hotel in search of a vending machine. He was desperately thirsty, which did nothing to alleviate his persistently bad mood.

On the one hand, he was still angry at Jackson. He was angry for what he'd done all those years ago, angry for what he'd done since he'd arrived, angry for his mocking attitude towards the world. On the other hand, Jonathan was angry at himself. He was angry for losing his temper, angry for letting Jackson walk all over him, angry for sleeping with his older brother, but mostly angry for telling Jackson that he'd wished he was dead.

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, it wasn't true.

His thoughts were cut off when he heard the loud clacking of footsteps coming down the hall from behind him. Jonathan ignored them, still wondering if the hotel even had vending machines. It didn't bother him at all when the footsteps from behind him grew faster, turning into a quick sprint until Jonathan found himself being slammed into a wall.

After the initials shock of being thrown against the wall, Jonathan saw that it was the brunette woman from before. Her face was just as angry, her eyes wide with rage and her teeth clenched together. Even though she was smaller than him, she was still an intimidating figure. As Jonathan looked down at her, he saw a large knife in her hand, which she clutched malevolently in her right hand.

"_What are you doing here_?" she hissed, and Jonathan found himself at a loss for words.


	15. I Don't Want to Hurt You

Thanks to a friend's tendency to blast Fall Out Boy on her car stereo, I am now falling asleep at night to dreams of Jonathan and Jackson with "Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying" blasting in the background. It's quite odd, sleeping with those running through your head.

Here's rooting for 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley' at Cannes! Go Cillian!

No flashbacks in this chapter, just because it would get far too complicated, since there's already two plotlines: Jackson in Gotham and Jonathan in Miami. Flashbacks would be a bit much.

And I bring you yet another chapter written in a rush. Sorry!

-----

THE ONE WARNING: I do not give warnings. I really mean it.

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_I Don't Want to Hurt You (But I Really Want to Hurt Him)_

Jackson checked his appearance in a mirror, slightly anxious but mostly exhilarated. Examining his reflection, he looked at the subtle changes he'd added, hoping they were convincing. His hair had been rearranged, looking stiffer now that he'd added a myriad mix of hair products. On the edge of his nose sat a pair of fake glasses, the lenses made in such a way that they didn't hinder his vision. Thick makeup covered the scar on his throat, obscuring it from view, and he was dressed in a sweater and slacks, a getup he'd normally have hated.

As he stared in the mirror, he fervently hoped that he looked exactly like his brother.

Satisfied with his appearance, he walked out to the den and picked up Jonathan's cell phone and scrolled down its list of contacts. When he got to the name 'Leon Warren', he hit 'Call' and pressed the phone to his ear.

After three rings, a familiar voice answered, "_Hello?_"

Adapting Jonathan's clinical tone of voice, Jackson answered, "Hi. It's me, Jonathan."

Leon's voice became much more energetic, his tone cheerful. "_Hey there! You made it to Miami alright? Or are you still on the plane?_"

Even over the phone, Jackson wanted to gag at the fact that he was going to have to talk to this bastard. "My flight was the canceled. Apparently, there's some terrible weather down in Florida, so I'll have to take a flight tomorrow morning."

A slight pause on the other end. "_And that won't make you late for the funeral?"_

Jackson frowned. Funeral? What the hell? "…well, it doesn't start 'til mid-afternoon, so I should make it in time." Drumming his fingers on the wall, he said, "I was wondering if I could come over, since I won't be leaving until tomorrow…"

Seemingly in an attempt to be coy, Leon murmured, "_Well, I don't see why not…_" He giggled slightly, and Jackson could feel bile rising in his throat.

Swallowing hard, a headache forming with every syllable that Leon spoke, Jackson rubbed his temple as he added, "I'll bring drinks."

"_Well, I'll see you in a few minutes, then. Talk to you later!"_

And with that, the call ended. Even though he felt a strong sense of disgust, he also knew that it was necessary. The night's plans rested in the balance, and Jackson would hate to have them ruined.

-----

Confused and unsettled by the strange woman with the knife, Jonathan tried to figure out what this woman thought she was doing. His mind racing, he attempted to figure out something to say that would calm her down.

Before he could say anything, the brunette woman was hissing once again as she knocked his glasses off his face with her free hand. "What, did you think I wouldn't notice that you had come here? That a pair of _specs_ would stop me from recognizing you?"

Holding the tip of the knife under his chin, she forcefully asked, "_Why did you come back?_"

Completely perplexed, with his vision having gone completely fuzzy, all Jonathan could do was ask in a bewildered tone, "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play dumb with me!" she shrilly replied. "Did you think I wouldn't remember who you _are_? Even after the flight, after what you wanted me to do, after trying to _kill_ me, after seeing your face in the papers for weeks and weeks on end? Did you think I could _forget_?"

Jonathan, still on edge and confused, asked her, "Who do you think I _am_?"

"Don't play innocent with me, _Jack_!" she shrieked, and something in Jonathan's mind put two and two together. _Of course_…

"You think…" he stated carefully, not wanting to startle her, "…you think I'm Jackson Rippner, don't you?"

"_Think_? I _know_ who you are." she replied, sounding slightly more level-headed. Waving the blade in front of his face, she asked once more, "Why did you come here? Why did you…"

"I'm not Jackson," he answered evenly, trying not to anger her further.

"Don't lie to me!"

"I'm not." Thinking quickly, Jonathan pointed out, "If I were Jackson Rippner, wouldn't I have a scar on my throat?"

The brunette woman seemed to consider this for a moment. Then, using her unoccupied hand, she rubbed the base of his throat with her thumb, checking for concealer or powder or something else that might cover up his scar. When she found nothing, her eyes widened.

Feeling somewhat more secure, Jonathan stated firmly and tranquilly, "My name is Jonathan Crane. I'm from Gotham City. I am simply staying at this hotel for a few days on business."

Backing away from him slowly, the woman dropped the knife to the ground, her hands starting to shake slightly. Pressing her palms to her forehead, she muttered, "Oh no…"

Deciding to be cautious, Jonathan kicked the knife away, just in case her suspicions returned. Quietly, he added, "I have my driver's license, if you need proof. I also have my reservation confirmation and my ID card from the hospital where I work."

Shaking her head, she muttered, "I can't believe I just…oh, dammit…" Looking up at him, she said meekly, "I am _so_ sorry."

Jonathan wasn't exactly sure what to say in response. '_Oh, don't worry about it'_? The whole situation was laced with a morbid absurdity, and he knew that if Jackson had seen them, he'd laugh at the sight.

Eventually, Jonathan was able to quietly state, "It's an easy mistake to make."

Reaching down and handing back his glasses, she muttered, "It's just…I didn't realize…" Stumbling over her words, she managed to say, "I saw you, and you looked so much like him…until you said that you had no scar…"

"…you didn't notice that we don't look exactly alike?" She nodded, and from the way she glanced over him, Jonathan guessed that she was beginning to spot the differences.

Jonathan knew from experience the changes between him and his brother, even excluding scars. Jonathan tended to walk in a stiff, upright manner, while Jackson always seemed to be leaning back on an invisible wall. As a result, no one ever seemed to notice that Jackson was taller by an inch or two; the difference was concealed by the way he carried himself. Also, Jonathan's eyesight was extremely poor from over two decades of wearing glasses. Without them, he could only squint at the fuzzy images before him, while Jackson seemed to have perfect vision. Aside from that were a myriad collection of differences in the way that they presented themselves, from the clothes they wore to the way they combed their hair.

Still in disbelief, the woman remarked, "I guess I'm fired, then."

_Or arrested_, Jonathan added mentally. But he had no intention of reporting her to either the hotel or the police. Rather than being angry, he was intrigued; this woman had obviously know Jackson at some point, and was possibly one of the people he'd been hired to kill. Or had she worked with him? Or was there some other connection between them that Jonathan hadn't thought of?

"What's your name?" Jonathan asked abruptly. The woman blinked a few times before answering softly, "Lisa Reisert."

"Lisa." He tested the name out on his tongue as he looked at the woman before him. Weighing his options in his head, he asked her, "Would you like to go get a drink?"

She stared at him for a second, as though he were asking her something ridiculous. "What?"

"A drink. Coffee, tea, juice. Something else, if that's what you'd prefer."

Recovering slightly from her surprise, Lisa stammered, "U-um, I suppose…"

"Alright, then," he said calmly. "Let's go to the hotel café, shall we?"

-----

Not long after their phone call, Jackson was standing outside the door to Leon's apartment, one hand rapping against the door while the other clutched a bottle of vodka. He had originally planned on bringing wine, but he figured something stronger would do the trick more quickly.

Leon answered the door after a few knocks, poking his head out the door. Upon seeing "Jonathan" standing there, his lips pulled into a wide smile.

"Hey." Swinging the door all the way open, Leon beckoned him to come inside. Jackson felt a very slight sense of trepidation, hoping his ruse would work. Leon, for his part, didn't seem to notice anything amiss.

Leading Jackson into his kitchen, he apologized, "I'm sorry the place is such a mess, but you came on such short notice, so…"

"That's fine," Jackson said sweetly. Plunking the bottle of vodka down onto Leon's kitchen table, he said, "I brought drinks, like I promised."

Looking down at the bottle on the table, Leon looked intrigued. Strolling towards his refrigerator, he said cheerily, "Well, vodka calls for Bloody Marys." Glancing towards Jackson, he asked, "That sound OK to you?"

Jackson nodded agreeably, and it was only a second later that Leon emerged from the fridge with V8 and celery stalks in hand. Pouring the tomato juice into two glasses, Leon asked, "Did you get my message earlier?"

"The one about your car? Yes."

Adding vodka to the glasses, Leon nodded a little as he said, "Yeah. The police are checking to see if they can figure out who did that to all those vehicles." Stirring the drinks with the celery, he added, "But I got my car back. The doors are still a wreck, but I got new tires."

After he handed one of the glasses off to Jackson, Leon raised his own glass in the air. "Cheers." Jackson raised his own glass and clinked it against Leon's, and they both sipped from their drinks.

Putting his drink down, Jackson silently resolved to drink as little as he could during his visit. He'd need to remain sober, so abstinence was essential.

Taking a large gulp from his Bloody Mary, Leon looked over at Jackson and smiled. "So, did you decide to come over for any particular reason?"

Attempting to look coy, Jackson replied, "I wanted to see you."

Arching an eyebrow, Leon asked, "Are you sure that's it? Nothing more to it than that?"

Grinning darkly, Jackson responded, "Maybe."

Leon laughed. "Right."

Jackson decided to change the subject, choosing to nod towards Leon's glass. "Drink up. Don't let good liquor go to waste."

Leon smiled carefully. "Trying to get me drunk?"

Once again, a dark look came into Jackson's eyes as he smirked at Leon. "Maybe."

Leon didn't seem to notice any change in "Jonathan's" demeanor. Instead, he smiled, picked up his drink, and obliged his request. When he had finished, the glass was empty except for the dregs and the celery stalk.

Looking at the glass, Jackson asked, "Want me to make you another?"

"Oh, what a gentleman." He handed his glass over to Jackson, who placed it on the counter next to the sink, where the vodka and tomato juice had been left.

As Jackson poured out some vodka, Leon checked his clock and remarked, "It'll be late soon."

Fully aware of this fact, Jackson dryly replied, "Really now."

Tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, Leon asked frankly, "You need to get home for your flight tomorrow, or you want to stay over?"

Pouring the tomato juice into the glass, Jackson replied, "Well, which would you prefer?"

Leon chuckled. "You need to ask?"

At that moment, the phone rang and Leon got out of his chair to answer it. As he stirred Leon's drink with the stalk of celery, Jackson listened to Leon's conversation on the phone.

"Hello…oh, hi, Harlene." Leon leaned against the wall next to the phone's cradle. "Uh-huh…uh-huh…" As he listened to the other end of the line, he pulled out a pack of Capris and a lighter. On the other side of the kitchen, Jackson discreetly poured the rest of the vodka down the sink's drain. Leon didn't seem to notice.

"Uh-huh…no, I don't think so…uh-huh." Leon rolled his eyes before lighting his cigarette and taking a puff. Jackson silently placed the Bloody Mary in front of Leon's spot on the table. Putting the phone between his ear and his shoulder, Leon grabbed the drink with his left hand and took a swig as he held onto his cigarette with his right hand.

"Harlene, I'm pretty sure we…ah, well…uh-huh…" Still balancing the phone, Leon managed to take another gulp from his glass and then take a puff from his cigarette. Jackson patiently stood on the other side of the room, the empty vodka bottle dangling from his right fist.

"Well, you'll have to him about that…uh-huh…I see…" Glancing over at Jackson, Leon said, "Look, Harlene, I have to go. I've got someone over, okay?" A pause. "Uh-huh. Okay."

Leon put his drink on the table before putting the phone back in its cradle. Looking back at Jackson, he rolled his eyes. "Harlene from work." Picking his glass back up, Leon finished off the rest of his second Bloody Mary.

Slowly walking around the table, Jackson asked, "What did she call about?"

After taking a drag off of his cigarette and exhaling the smoke, Leon answered, "Some trouble with a few of the other doctors. Wants me to say something on her behalf."

"To who?"

Leon smiled. "You, most likely." He took a drag off of his cigarette again and exhaled sharply. "Anyway, you want…?"

He was quickly cut off, because by this point, Jackson had reached the other side of table. He had pulled back his arm and brought the vodka bottle crashing against the back of Leon's head. With the tinkling of shards of glass and a growing circle of red in his hair, Leon teetered for a second before crashing forward to the ground.

Jackson crouched next to him on the ground, watching to see if he would remain unconscious. When he saw no sign of movement or awareness, Jackson smiled. _Finally_.

Scanning the shards of glass lying all over the ground, Jackson sighed, knowing that he would have to sweep all of them up. As he looked across the ground, he spotted Leon's cigarette still dangling from the unconscious man's fingers. Curious, Jackson reached forward and brought it to his lips, taking a drag. As the taste filled his mouth, he flinched. This was one of those girly cigarettes, all filters and menthol. Exhaling the smoke, Jackson reached over and extinguished the cigarette on the back of Leon's hand, leaving a scorching red burn mark in its wake.

-----

About ten minutes after their initial "meeting", Jonathan and Lisa found themselves at one of the tables in the hotel's restaurant, the Lux Café. Jonathan had ordered some coffee, while Lisa quietly sipped some jasmine tea. They had been sitting in awkward silence for the last minute and a half, neither of them sure how to approach a conversation.

Eventually, Lisa was the one who spoke, tentatively murmuring, "Would it be bad to ask why you bought me a drink instead of having me arrested?"

Jonathan added a spoonful of sugar to his coffee, shrugging as he answered. "I suppose not."

"Alright, then." She leaned forward slightly, her curiosity evident in her expression. "Why?"

Glancing up at her as he stirred his coffee, Jonathan mentally debated how to reply. Eventually, he decided to be straightforward. Sighing, he responded, "He's my brother."

Lisa blinked. "What?"

"Jackson was…_is_ my brother."

Lisa watched him for a few seconds, as though waiting for a punch line. When none came, she sighed. "Makes sense, I guess." Frowning slightly, she added, "But didn't you say your last name is Crane?"

"It is." Pushing his glasses further up his nose, Jonathan explained, "His name was Jackson Crane, until he turned sixteen, which is when I suppose he changed it."

"Why would he change it?"

Jonathan bit his lip, pausing for a moment before stating quietly, "He died."

Lisa looked slightly bewildered at this response. "What?"

Meeting her gaze evenly, he stated, "There was a fire thirteen years ago. Someone poured gasoline all over the floors of our house and lit a match." He paused. "They found three bodies inside. Three burned, mangled, almost indistinguishable bodies. Everyone assumed that they were the bodies of Jackson and our parents. I even identified the bodies as such when the police asked me to look at them." Jonathan took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "That same night, a teenage girl went missing in our town for no apparent reason. She just vanished, with no evidence, no leads, and no clue where she went." He paused. "They never did find her."

Frowning slightly, Lisa said, "So…you think that one of the bodies was really this girl?"

Jonathan shrugged slightly. "It would appear so."

Adding some sugar to her jasmine tea, Lisa continued her questioning. "So he set your house on fire and killed your parents and this girl…and just _left_?"

Slightly testy, Jonathan replied, "Again, that's how it would appear to be."

Lisa bit her lip, thinking over this as she stirred her tea. Jonathan said nothing, going back to sipping his coffee quietly.

After a moment of silent meditation, Lisa tentatively inquired, "And you're sure that your brother is Jackson Rippner?"

Serenely staring at Lisa, Jonathan replied, "When I saw the newspaper after he was arrested, I saw a copy of his mug shot splashed across the front cover. The second I saw it, there was no doubt in my mind that I was looking at a picture of my brother." Picking up his coffee, he added, "Besides, it would be quite the coincidence to have a man who looked exactly like my brother, and almost exactly like _me_, turn out not to be him, especially since they share the same first name." Biting his lip for a second, Jonathan added, "Besides, it's the sort of thing Jackson would have done."

Lisa slowly nodded, in response. Leaning back slightly in his chair, Jonathan said, "So now it's my turn. How did _you_ meet my brother?"

Looking down at her tea, Lisa quietly asked, "You said you saw the photo of him after he was arrested, right?"

"Yes."

"Then you know about the assassination attempt he made. How he arranged for the murders of the Keefe family?"

Jonathan nodded. "Yes."

Refusing to look up from the table, Lisa replied, "He held me hostage on a plane. When I was flying home to Miami, he wanted me to help him arrange Keefe's assassination." She paused, biting her lip. "And I did it, too. But when our flight landed, I got away. I stabbed him, and I warned everyone in time." Running her finger on the rim of her teacup, she continued, "He tried to kill me. So I stabbed him, and I shot him, and my father shot him." Smiling sadly, she added, "And he lived."

Jonathan watched her cautiously. "You were upset when he made it?"

She nodded. "I hoped that, when they rushed him away in the ambulance, the doctors would botch the job somehow. Because I didn't want to have to see him again, to see him staring at me with those eyes he has." Looking up, she added, "Like you're doing now."

Averting his gaze, Jonathan mumbled, "My apologies."

Lisa smiled. "It's alright. You're not him." Shaking her head slightly, she continued, "I was always worried that I'd have to see him again."

"You're worried that he wants to seek vengeance?"

Lisa thought about this for a second, eventually replying, "In a way. But it's more than that. I just…I don't like to be reminded of what happened. I just want to move on, to keep living without constantly going back to what happened."

Jonathan cocked his head to one side and looked at her as though examining one of his patients. "Are you afraid of reliving the emotions you felt during the flight?"

Lisa didn't answer, staring at her tea mutely. Still observing her clinically, Jonathan asked, "Is it that you don't like the feelings of being helpless, or of being threatened?""

Lisa continued to say nothing, obviously not sure or not willing to respond to his questions.

Jonathan watched her for a second or two, and then asked her quietly, "You were attracted to him, weren't you?"

Lisa kept her gaze planted firmly on her drink, replying only after a long pause. "…yes." She bit her lip, frowning. "Before he told me who he was, we talked. He impressed me. He was charming, he was straightforward, he was polite, he listened..."

Looking up, she continued morosely, "I hadn't been attracted to a man for a while before he came along…and when he did, I thought we'd hit it off. And it's strange, looking back on it and realizing that it was all calculated, that he _knew_ how to impress me, that he _knew_ how to lure me in. He had followed me for weeks before the flight, so he'd planned out exactly how to wrap me around his finger. And, dammit, it _worked_. It worked and I fell for it."

Smiling sadly, Jonathan couldn't help but recall evenings from when he was fourteen, during those months that he and Jackson had become more than brothers, and Jonathan suddenly felt tired and drained. "He was always a good manipulator. Whatever he wanted…no matter what it was…he knew how to get it, one way or another."

Looking past Lisa, he added, "Sometimes, victims blame themselves for things that are simply beyond their control." Lisa looked up at him, her attention rapt as he continued, "They'll manage to blame themselves by thinking of something that somehow made it their fault, even if it's completely unrelated…like their initial attraction to their tormentor."

Lisa nodded her head slightly. "Yeah…" She smiled. "You're a shrink?"

Jonathan smiled in kind. "Psychopharmocologist."

Lisa laughed airily. "I see." After taking a sip of her tea, she noted, "You seem to remember him very well."

Looking down at the table, Jonathan shrugged lightly. "He's hard to forget."

Staring straight at Jonathan's face, Lisa said, "Especially after what he did before he left."

Hearing her comment, Jonathan closed his eyes for a second, and he could suddenly see the flames dancing as though it were happening all over again. The smoke filled his nostrils, and he could feel the sparks and heat on his cheeks. Suddenly, his heart ached, feeling the pain accompanying the loss of someone dear and irreplaceable.

Opening his eyes, Jonathan was brought back to Miami, where Lisa looked at him expectantly.

Smiling lightheartedly, Jonathan attempted to look nonchalant.

"That's Jackson for you."

-----

Leon didn't regain consciousness for forty-five minutes, and when he did, he could only see darkness for several seconds. His eyes opened halfway, and Leon saw what seemed to be endless blackness. Blinking several times, his eyes began to adjust, and he slowly started to see his surroundings.

He was no longer in his apartment's kitchen. Instead, he found himself in the driver's seat of his car, for some reason. Even odder was the fact that his wrists appeared to be tied to the seat's armrests with long strips of cloth twisted into complicated knots, while his ankles were similarly tied to the seat-adjustment bar underneath the driver's chair.

Still not completely aware of what was going on, he looked around frantically through half-closed eyes. The car wasn't near his apartment building; it was about fifteen feet away from one of the roadways directly outside of Gotham. It was facing away from the road, the land in front of it invisible because of the pitch black night. No light cam from the roadway, since the streetlights were all either out or dimly lit, and there were seemingly no other cars on the road. The only sounds that Leon could hear were from the wind whistling past the car and his own breathing.

A sharp pain shooting through the back of his hand brought him fully back to consciousness. Trying to lean forward, Leon found that yet another strip of cloth was tied around his neck to the back of his headrest, uncomfortably keeping him against the back of his seat and strangling him if he attempted to move.

Panicking, Leon attempted to writhe his way out of his binds, a sense of urgency rising inside him. But as soon as he did so, he heard a voice state calmly, "You're not gonna escape those. I know my knots, and it'll be damn near impossible to work your way out of those."

Leon looked to his right to see Jonathan's face watching him cautiously through the passenger side window, twirling Leon's key rung on one finger.

"Jonathan…?" he asked in a strangled voice, the ties around his neck pressing painfully against his windpipe. "Jonathan, what's going on?"

Strolling around the back of the car to the driver's side window, Jonathan said casually, "You went driving after a few drinks and got into a tragic accident."

Confused, Leon tried to turn his head to look at Jonathan as he managed to choke out, "Jonathan, what are you talking about? Did you do this?"

Leaning on the driver side window frame, Jonathan continued speaking as though he hadn't heard Leon say a word. "For reasons unclear, you went out driving after your judgment was impaired by two drinks of vodka, drunk in rapid succession. While driving, you made your way onto this very dark, very deserted road outside of the city."

Leon shook his head slightly, the pressure on his throat still painful. "I don't…I don't understand…"

Pointing towards the area in front of the car, Jonathan continued, "The area off the side of the road turns into a downward slope at about the point where your car is sitting. It's not steep enough that hitting the brakes wouldn't stop the car, but if you _don't_ hit the brakes…" He shrugged carelessly, leaving the thought dangling. Looking directly at Leon, he added, "But if you're, say, inebriated, you might not have the sense to hit the brake, even if there's a sharp drop at the end of the slope. Of course, that might be hard to see in the middle of the night."

Taking something out of his pants pocket, Jonathan coldly stated, "That sharp drop goes about twenty feet down. If your car goes over it, you _could_ be crushed on impact. If _not_…" He revealed a lighter in his palm, and began to flick it on and off as he spoke. "If not, a stray spark might shoot out of the car. And since you _accidentally_ spilled vodka on yourself while you were drinking…" Jonathan stared at Leon with cold, unfeeling eyes, his lips curling up with the hint of a smile. "…a spark might just light you up like a candle."

Leon's eyes grew wide with panic, and he tried his best to figure out if this was some sort of prank. But even as he tried to convince himself that it was, he could feel the damp cloth of his shirt, and smell the sharp scent of vodka in his nostrils. And Jonathan was holding that lighter in a way that seemed deadly serious.

Leon's mouth tried to form words, but he couldn't speak. This was too much, too fast. Nothing escaped his lips as he desperately prayed that this were some sort of dream that he was having.

Smirking, Jonathan noted, "It's hard to think about, I bet." Flicking the lighter on and allowing the flame to linger, he added coldly, "But I suppose that's what you get for drinking and driving."

Looking at Jonathan with disbelief, Leon hoarsely asked, "Why?"

Jonathan was silent, staring at Leon with hateful, uncaring eyes. Growing desperate, Leon asked once more, "Jonathan, _why_?"

Continuing to flick the lighter, he answered, "Jonathan is currently in Miami, probably asleep in his hotel room by now."

Leon didn't understand. That was impossible. Jonathan was standing right next to him. How could he be a thousand miles away when he was _right there_?

His throat being rubbed raw against its binding, Leon croaked, "…who…?"

Calmly, he stated, "I'm his brother."

For a second or two, Leon stared at him, absorbing this information slowly. As he did so, a small giggle escaped his lips, and he soon found himself laughing weakly and uncontrollably, each chuckle sounding a lot like a sob.

As his frail laughter continued, Leon could hear a voice asking, "What are you laughing at?"

Still giggling, Leon managed to reply, "You're the one that left that note. You're the freak of nature broth-…"

He was cut off when the man outside the car reached in and grabbed his throat with both hands, still carrying the lighter in his palm. Even as he gasped for air and felt the cold metal of the lighter pressing against his throat, Leon's sobbing laughter continued, and tears began to slide down his face as he realized that he was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

As he felt increasingly dizzy and light-headed, Leon could vaguely hear the man hissing threats at him, but Leon couldn't care less. He just kept shaking with silent laughter and choked sobs.

Eventually, the man released him, and Leon was grateful for the decreased pressure to his windpipe. He slowly stopped laughing, his giddiness subsiding as the seriousness of the situation sunk in. Lolling his head to his left, Leon looked back at the strange man, who was now running his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Anger still evident in his voice, the strange man coldly stated, "In a minute, your car is going to switch from Park to Drive. When that happens, it'll coast forward a few inches before rolling down the slope until it hits the drop." Pacing near the driver's side door, he continued, "When they find you tomorrow, it'll look like an accident and nothing more. I soaked the cloths tying you down in the same vodka that's on your shirt, so they'll simply burn away. And your hair is doused in hairspray, which'll take care of the mark from where I hit you."

Looking down at Leon, he concluded, "And that'll be that. You'll be dead, and there'll be no evidence that it was anything but a tragic accident." Smiling cruelly, he leaned on the window frame and asked, "Any last words?"

Leon stared at him numbly, all too aware of what was about to happen to him and all too aware that he was helpless to stop it. He couldn't escape his binds, he couldn't scream for help, and there was no one around to see them. He couldn't reach any of the controls or pedals, so there was no way for him to attempt to control the car. And even if he did manage any of these feats, who knew what kind of retribution this man would dole out?

Leaning his head back against the headrest, Leon felt resigned to what was to come, and he only hoped that it would be over quickly.

Calmly, he asked the man in a weak voice, "Why?" When the man looked away without responding, Leon asked again in a slightly louder voice, "_Why?_"

The man turned his head and gave him a strange look, as though contemplating his answer. Eventually, he shrugged and stated simply, "Because I hate you."

Laughing cruelly, he added, "You should never have gotten involved with him. You should have left him alone and gone and fucked some other pretty boy."

Tossing the lighter from one hand to the other, the man smirked, "It'd have been much better for you if you'd just stayed away. You should've realized that Jonathan belonged to someone else. That he was _mine_."

Leon blinked several times, perplexed and frightened. What was he talking about?

Taking Leon's keys out of his pocket, the man muttered, "But it's too late for that now."

Reaching through the window frame and over Leon, he inserted the key into the ignition, and started the engine. He then reached past the steering wheel and switched the car from 'Park' to 'Drive', and quickly extracted himself from the window frame as the car began to inch forward.

Leon shut his eyes tightly, not wanting to watch. If he'd had the option, he would've crossed himself. Instead, he had to settle for quietly reciting a prayer as he felt the car hitting the slope, the speed of the vehicle slowly increasing until he felt a sense of weightlessness as it went into a freefall.

-----

Jonathan's evening ended with him shaking Lisa Reisert's hand in an attempt at friendliness, both of them exhausted from the late hour and the emotions they associated with their topics of discussion.

"Once again, I am _really_ sorry about before," Lisa reiterated, firmly grasping Jonathan's hand as she shook.

"Don't worry about it," Jonathan replied, extracting his hand. "I'm glad we had our discussion."

Looking slightly wistful, Lisa nodded. "So am I."

Grabbing a tissue and a pen from her purse, she quickly scribbled something onto the tissue. Handing it to Jonathan, she explained, "My address and my phone number. If you ever need anything, just drop me a line or call." Smiling slightly she said, "Hope you like Miami."

He nodded his gratitude, glancing at the words and numbers scrawled onto the tissue before pocketing it. "Thank you."

-----

Strolling down towards the empty street on the way towards the bright lights of Gotham, Jackson still had the smell of smoke lingering in his nostrils. Even though he had walked a mile from where he had left Leon, his eyes were still adjusting to the brightness of the flames, and he could almost imagine the feel of sparks against his face.

The plan had gone all too well. When the car had fallen down the drop, sparks from the crash had started the fire by itself without any aid from Jackson's lighter, thanks to the abundance of flammable materials in the car. He had watched from the edge of the slope as the car erupted into flames, the bright orange fire dancing against the darkness of the night.

No one had noticed. No one had seen or heard anything. Whenever Leon would be found, the evidence would have burned away, and it would be written off as a tragic accident and a reminder not to drink and drive.

As the lights of Gotham grew closer, Jackson decided what to do. When he walked into the city, he would hail a taxi. He would go back to Jonathan's apartment. He would fall asleep, perhaps sneaking into bed, rather than sleeping on the couch as he usually did. And when he awoke in the morning, he would go about his day as he usually did.


	16. A Day In the Land of Monsters

Let me just apologize right off the bat. I knew I'd have to take some time off from writing this to get finished with school, but I didn't realize that it would take three weeks. And I feel bad, since I'm ending the dry stretch with a somewhat boring chapter, but I've got no choice. Between going back to edit all my old chapters for my Writing class, a presentation and paper on Moby Dick, preparations for graduation and prom, as well as the end of all my classes, I've been really busy. In an attempt to make it up to everyone, though, I added that scene at the end and I drew a ton of fanart (which I'll post on deviantart once my scanner is fixed).

By the way, if anyone wants to see the watered-down (i.e. incest-free) version of this story, you can find it in the Misc. Movies section at n f i c t i o n . c o m (you'll have to delete the spaces). With the exception of Chapters 3 and 4, it's really not that different.

Well, last chapter wins the award for most and worst spelling mistakes in any of the chapters I'd written so far. You'd think I could kill a major character without so many errors, but I guess not. Anyway, they should all be fixed by now, along with some other minor adjustments (for example, Leon no longer recites the 23rd Psalm as he prepares for death).

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_A Day in the Land of Monsters_

_Jackson drummed his fingers on the wheel of the car, listening to the radio with the windows down. Glancing towards his right every now and then, Jackson was growing more and more impatient. He was tempted to turn on the car radio, but he couldn't attract any attention to himself while he was on duty. So he was simply forced to make do with the silence._

_The car was parked in the driveway of a rather nice-looking house, one of those places that looked like a life-sized dollhouse from a hundred years ago. There were no signs of life coming from inside, save for a faint, miniscule light wandering through the rooms, and the faint sound of breaking glass._

_The car he was sitting in was a nice Jaguar that sadly was not his. Instead, it belonged to one of the managers from Children of Hades, a certain Ryan. Normally, he was somewhat possessive of his prized possession, but Jackson had been allowed to borrow it on the condition that it be returned unharmed. Considering their line of work, that was a tall order, especially considering that Jackson was technically on assignment._

_All in all, Jackson was having a good day. He got to borrow a rather expensive car, he was on a well-paying assignment, a girl had hit on him while he'd been picking up his dry-cleaning, and Guiteau had finally given him the various false identification he'd need for his assignments._

_It had been a thrill to look over a driver's license, social security card, passport and high school diploma, most of which bore his photo and all of which more the name 'Jackson Rippner'. He'd had to invent a whole identity for himself, which Guiteau had grilled him on repeatedly. His name was Jackson Rippner. His parents were Frank and Selena Rippner. They had died in a fire when he was sixteen. He had been sent to the Children of Heaven youth center, where he now worked as a counselor._

_Jackson smiled. When lying, it was best to stay as close to the truth as possible._

_When Guiteau had asked him what last name he wanted for the false identification he'd be receiving for assignments, Jackson had immediately thought of his idol from his early years in high school. He'd thought 'Jackson Rippner' would be an interesting alias, not to mention a good conversation starter. Everyone else seemed to either be amused or confused by it. Laurence had said that the only thing dumber would be for Ray to take the last name "O'Sunshine"._

_Still, he liked it. He liked the effect that it had on people in conversation, the way it added a bit of awkward humor to a conversation. And he enjoyed the double-take people would do upon hearing it said, think that he must be kidding them. And there was the most delightful part of all: the delicious irony when he handed them their fates._

_Jackson's meditation was interrupted by a piercing scream coming from the house. Glancing to his right, he saw a young girl, probably no more than twenty, running through out the door and onto the lawn as though the devil were snapping at her heels. She stumbled several times as she sprinted, her stilettos impeding her as she made her way across the grass._

_As she opened her mouth to emit another wail, a man appeared from the front doorway. He, too, was running, and just as a high-pitched shriek emerged from the girl's lips, he tackled her to the ground, landing on top of her as her face smashed into the turf._

_The girl struggled, but the man held her fast. He pulled a handgun from a holster and pressed it against the side of her face, whispering threats as he pulls her up. She began to shake as she nodded fervently, a cascade of tears running down her face. Seeming satisfied, the man began guide her away from where they were standing._

_As they approached the car, the man nodded at Jackson. "Hey."_

Jackson nodded back. "Hey, Laurence."

Pulling one of back doors open with his free hand, Laurence shoved the girl inside and climbed in behind her, continuing to hold the gun near the girl's head. As Laurence shut the door behind him, Jackson turned around to look at the girl in the backseat. "Hello there, Cassandra."

The girl looked at him with wide eyes, but she said nothing. Laurence pulled a spool of twine out of his pocket before handing his gun to Jackson. "Keep this on her while I tie her up."

_Jackson nodded, keeping the handgun focused on Cassandra as Laurence proceeded to wrap the twine around her ankles. Casually, Jackson asked, "Where's Ray?"_

"He's still back at the house." Tying the twine at her ankles in a knot before moving onto Cassandra's wrists, Laurence added, "He should be back with Diane in a few minutes."

At that name, Cassandra's eyes filled with fear. "Mom?"

Jackson smirked. "The one and only." Still training the gun on Cassandra, Jackson handed a thick belt to Laurence, who accepted it gratefully. He proceeded to wrap it around Cassandra's head, the strap acting as a gag as he buckled it tightly at the base of her skull.

_Seconds later, the three of them could hear two pairs of heavy footfall, and a blonde man appeared in their field of vision, carrying another handgun. This time, it was pressed against the neck of a woman who appeared to be in her forties, who would have seemed calm were it not for her fearful shaking. Turning around, Jackson nodded at the blonde man. "Hey, Ray."  
_

_He nodded back. "Hey, Jackson." Laurence pushed open the back door, and Ray shoved her inside. As she plopped onto the backseat, she glanced over to see her daughter there. _

"_Cassie…?" she asked fervently, hysteria creeping into her voice. Cassandra, unable to reply, began to cry quietly as Ray fastened a belt around her mother's head._

_Laurence, grinning lewdly, put his arms around both women's shoulders as Ray continued to bind Diane. "Relax, ladies. Let's just enjoy our night out, shall we?"_

"_Laurence…" Ray said warningly, but Laurence ignored him. Taking his arm away from Diane, he leaned towards Cassandra, who shrunk away from him as best she could._

"_There, there, don't be so frightened. Just because some big bad men are here to take you away doesn't mean you should be so depressed."_

"Laurence…" Ray repeated firmly, finishing the knots on Diane's wrists. Jackson rolled his eyes. "Laurence, give it a rest. We have to get going."

_Still smirking gleefully, Laurence nodded at Jackson. "Give me my gun back. You'll need both hands to drive."_

Jackson forked over the gun, Laurence accepting it in the hand not on Cassandra's shoulder. Leaning towards Cassandra, he gave her an odd look before winking at her and giving her a quick kiss past the belt strap. Cassandra, seeming resigned, continued to sob and shake helplessly. Ray, for his part, hit Laurence on the shoulder and hissed, "Knock it off."

_Jackson turned to the steering wheel, waiting for Ray to climb into the passenger seat before putting the car in drive._

_As the car pulled out of the driveway, Jackson told Ray, "Call Ryan."_

He nodded. "Where's your cell?"

"Glove compartment."

Ray popped open the glove compartment easily and yanked out a small phone, which he put on speakerphone and stuck in the drink holder.

_  
After a few rings, Ryan's voice emanated from the phone. "_Hello?_"_

Ray answered, "Hey, Ryan, it's us."

"How goes it on your end?"

"_Diane and Cassandra send their best wishes from the back seat," Laurence called out, still wrapping one arm around the young woman._

"Good, good…"_ Ryan mumbled before asking as nonchalantly as he could, _"How's the car?"

_Smiling slightly, Ray answered, "Car's fine, Ryan."_

_Jackson was amused by Ryan's concern for his car. He'd only lent the Jaguar to them reluctantly, and he'd had to elicit several promises that absolutely nothing would happen to his beloved vehicle. If he'd had a choice, he'd have come with them to ensure that nothing went wrong. However, he'd been thwarted by numbers: the car only had five seats, and with two hostages, only three of them could go. So they'd drawn straws, and Ryan had to stay behind._

_Focusing on their assignment, Jackson asked, "So, what next?"_

Adopting a more businesslike tone of voice, Ryan answered, "Meet me at the docks. We'll dump 'em in the harbor, leave the bodies for someone else to find."

_Jackson nodded. "Where's Jeff White?"_

"Still at the party, where he'll have a solid alibi."

_Jackson could hear Diane sobbing from the backseat , having recognized her husband's name and probably having realized who was funding her impromptu kidnapping. Ignoring her, he added, "Well, we'll be there in a few minutes. Traffic's not too bad right now."_

As he turned the car onto a residential street, Jackson could see Diane pressing her face against the backseat window, looking wide-eyed out at the passing cars. Ray, peering over his headrest at the occupants of the backseat, warned her, "I wouldn't try that. The windows are tinted; no one's gonna see you."

_Ray was interrupted by the sound of cell phone ringing. Pissed off, Laurence waved his gun in the faces of the two women, barking, "Whose is that? Whose phone is ringing?"_

Diane made a noise that sounded like a squeak. Laurence immediately turned to her, asking, "Is it yours?"

She nodded fearfully. Laurence looked over at Jackson, who simply shrugged.

_Ryan's voice emanated from the cell phone, commanding, "_Let her answer it. If she doesn't, someone might call the house and realize neither of them are there. We don't want anyone to notice they're missing just yet._"_

Laurence sighed in annoyance, still keeping his gun firmly in hand. He reached through Diane's pocket, eventually finding the small device. Undoing the belt around her head, he hissed, "You say anything about what's going on, I shoot. You understand?"

Diane nodded, shaking as the belt slid off her mouth. Laurence flipped the phone open and pressed it to her ear, keeping the gun trained squarely at her forehead.

_Her voice frail, she asked, "Hello?"_

A vague mumbling came from the other end. Diane eyes darted back and forth between Ray and Laurence several times, eventually resting on Cassandra, who was sobbing quietly in her seat.

"_Mm-hmm, I see." She replied. As the mumbling voice returned, Diane closed her eyes and began to take deep, calming breaths. When the voice stopped, she suddenly began to speak very quickly. "Lindahelpthey'vegotCass-…"_

Laurence yanked the phone away from her ear and folded it and neatly squeezed the trigger. After a quick blast, a small red circle formed on her forehead, and her head lolled to the side as a trickle of blood ran down her forehead. Past her gag, Cassandra began to screech as tears ran down her face even more rapidly.

_Laurence turned his attention back to her, yelling, "Shut up! Just shut up!"_

From the driver's seat, Jackson yelled back, "Keep it down! We're almost there."

"She just told someone what was going on! She blew our cover!"  


_Via the cell phone, Ryan stated calmly, "_It doesn't matter. Just hurry to the docks and we'll get rid of them as quick as we can_."_

Ray murmured an agreement, as did Jackson as he scanned to see if anyone had noticed the blare of gunfire coming from their car. Laurence, however, shook his head and muttered, "Screw this."

He turned around and shot at Cassandra, the bullet glancing off of her and hitting the window, shattering it. Angrier, he shot again, this time hitting her square in the temple and causing a splatter of blood to form on the shattered glass.

"_Laurence!" Ray shrieked as Jackson turned the car into an alleyway, where no one would notice the window or the bodies inside the car. "What the hell were you thinking?"_

Smirking, Laurence replied, "She wouldn't be quiet."

Through the phone, Jackson could hear Ryan's voice asking, "What was that? What just shattered?"__

Calmly putting his gun in its holster, Laurence replied, "Cassandra won't be putting up a fight when we get there, Ryan."

Ray, still freaking out, shrieked, "You just shot her! And you made the window explode!"

"He WHAT?"

_Ray shook his head fervently, seeming unable to calm down. "We gotta get rid of the bodies."_

"Then get your asses to the docks!"

_"We can't! Even with only a few people on the road, they're bound to notice the two dead bodies in the backseat through shattered window."_

"Okay, but how?"

_Jackson, leaning his forehead against the steering wheel, muttered, "We burn the car."_

Laurence and Ray gave him a look. Even through a cell phone, Jackson could tell Ryan was not pleased by this. Yet he would've known that it was the only option left; his car was covered in the women's blood, and their fingerprints were all over the vehicle and the bodies. If anyone had heard any of the gunshots coming from the car, they may have spotted the license plate and called the police. Even if they took the car and left the bodies, the police might match the car to the license plate and have them arrested.

_When Ryan didn't object, choosing instead to sigh mournfully, Jackson pulled out a lighter. "Anyone got some gasoline?"_

-----

_Several days later, they all found themselves back at headquarters, tired and irritated from their foray with the White women. They all sat around in Guiteau's office, casually lighting cigarettes and blowing puffs of smoke across the room. Smoking was a hobby looked down upon by others for how quickly it snuffed out a person's life. In a profession where murder meant money and the average employee never saw their fortieth birthday, they saw no reason not to indulge._

_As they sat together in a tense silence, everyone tried to act nonchalant, even as Ryan and Laurence shot dark looks at each other and Jackson and Ray tried not to look too involved._

_Guiteau, as he entered the room cheerfully, seemed not to notice any tension. "Welcome back. How was Georgia?"_

Ryan, assuming the tone of a babysitter reporting to his charges' parent, replied, "It went alright." He shot a quick look at Laurence. "For the most part."

Guiteau seemed not to notice as Laurence rolled his eyes. Instead, he merrily asked, "Do you have the case file?"

Ryan nodded, forking over a manila envelope that contained the write-up of the Whites' case. Guiteau accepted it gratefully before asking, "Ryan, would you mind stepping out for a minute or so? I would like to speak to these three in private."

_Ryan, seeming to restrain his curiosity, merely nodded before standing and exiting, not missing a chance to shoot Laurence one more nasty look. Laurence, for his part, ignored him._

After Ryan had closed the door behind him, Guiteau turned to the three younger men and smiled calmly. "I would like to discuss with you an upcoming assignment. I think that all of you will be interested in it."

Laurence exhaled a puff of smoke. "What kind of assignment?"

Quirking an eyebrow at the impatient rookie before him, Guiteau replied, "In good time, Laurence."

_Extinguishing his cigarette into an ashtray, Guiteau continued. "My supervisor recently called in to tell me that several branches of our network are being asked to bring in employees to help with an assignment in Iran. Our branch has been asked to bring in three teams of four." Smiling a little, he asked, "How would you three like to be in one of those groups?"_

The three stared at him for a few seconds, their minds poring over this and realizing what a big deal it was. They were mere rookies, only employed for about a year. Hell, they'd only recently gotten their IDs and working papers for assignments. Yet Guiteau was offering them the opportunity to work on a foreign case, a chance generally given to senior officers in their network.

_As the other two sat in stunned silence, Jackson asked, "Who'll be the fourth person?"_

_Still smiling, Guiteau answered, "We'll need one of the managers in charge of your group, so I asked Mr. Salvador to join."_

Jackson arched an eyebrow in surprise. "Sal?" This intrigued Jackson. He'd seen Sal around headquarters before, of course, but had never had the chance to work with him. It would be interesting to reunite with the man who'd been responsible for his recruitment.

_Ray, a slight frown on his face, asked, "What exactly will we need to do in Iran?"_

Scratching his beard, Guiteau replied, "My supervisor has yet to inform me as to the exact details of the assignment. This mission won't be for several months, after all; I am merely making preliminary arrangements. But I assure you, once I receive more information, I will let all of you know what is to happen."

_Checking his watch, Guiteau added, "I have an appointment in about twenty minutes. If you three don't mind, we'll end this discussion now."_

_The three younger men stood up preparing to leave, until Guiteau called, "Just one minute."_

Turning to the snake-like member of the group, Guiteau added, "Laurence, I'd like you to stay behind."

Laurence frowned. "Why?"

Pointing to the open manila folder that he had received earlier, Guiteau asked, "Is it not true that you shot a hostage against your manager's orders?"

Jackson could see Laurence roll his eyes, and he couldn't help but laugh inwardly at the sight as he left the room.

_As Laurence stayed behind to be reprimanded by Guiteau, Jackson and Ray strolled down the building's corridors on the way to their respective rooms._

"_So, what do you think?" Ray asked thoughtfully. Jackson turned his head with a confused expression on his face. "Think about what?" _

"_What Guiteau said. Y'know, about going to Iran." _

_Jackson shrugged. "Should be interesting. It'll be nice to do something outside the states for once." _

_Giving Jackson a slightly apprehensive look, Ray replied, "Yeah, but this is Iran. First off, we don't even speak the damn language. Second, they do some serious shit over there, not just dinky little accidents. And third, Guiteau won't even tell us what the hell we're going to be doing. That either means he thinks we'll chicken out, or that they won't even tell him what's going on." _

_Rolling his eyes, Jackson countered, "First of all, it doesn't matter that we can't speak Iranian…" _

"_Farsi." _

"_Whatever. It doesn't matter that we can't speak the language, because there'll be translators from both sides. Secondly, we've done serious shit before, and why would Guiteau send us in if he didn't think we could handle it? And thirdly, give Guiteau a little more credit than that." _

_Sighing, Ray answered, "I dunno. I got a bad feeling about this." _

"_You have bad feelings about all sorts of things. Relax, alright? We'll be fine." _

_Turning the handle to his room's door, Ray shook his head a little. "Hope you're right, man." _

-----

_Gritting his teeth in annoyance, Laurence muttered, "Ray needs to get his head out of his ass," after Jackson had related to him their comrade's fears. The two of them sat in Laurence's car as Laurence drove them towards downtown Miami, having gotten bored at CoH headquarters and deciding to go to a local brothel. After little persuasion, Jackson had agreed to go along for the ride._

_Nodding his head, Jackson added, "He worries too much about this stuff. He's too nervous, especially considering what his job is." _

_Still annoyed, Laurence added, "Yeah, but he never screws up, which is why he stays." Swerving through the street's lanes as he sped past everyone else on the road, he continued, "He just doesn't get it. This is our chance to get off of dinky assignments like the Whites and move on to bigger assignments. I mean, I'm bored to tears doing all these little jobs. Aren't you?" _

_Jackson shrugged. "I suppose." Lighting a cigarette, he asked, "Speaking of the Whites, how'd Guiteau react to your insubordinance charge?" _

_Rolling his eyes, Laurence replied, "Confiscated my guns until further notice. I'm probably not getting them back until the Iran assignment." _

_Trying not to grin, Jackson heckled, "Serves you right." _

"_Phht. Like I need guns to get a job done." _

_Taking a drag off of his Marlboro, Jackson chuckled, "Oh joy. Laurence coming to work with a crossbow."_

Smiling slightly (probably at the thought of the crossbow), Laurence hit him on the shoulder. "Shut up."

-----

It was early Saturday morning when Jackson could hear Jonathan trudging towards the door to the apartment. As the key turned in the lock, Jackson looked up from his copy of _Paradise Lost _and watched with anticipation as the door swung open.

When Jonathan entered the room, he had a scowl on his face, and Jackson could immediately tell that he was irritated. As he saw his brother shut the door carefully behind him, Jackson could tell that Jonathan wasn't thrilled to be back home, and had probably been hoping Jackson was asleep.

As Jonathan carried his suitcase into the apartment, Jackson put on an emotionless expression and stated in an even voice, "Welcome back, Scarecrow."

As Jonathan dropped his suitcase to the ground, Jackson asked cordially, "How was your trip?"

Barely looking up at him, Jonathan replied, "It was fine." Removing his coat he asked, "Did anyone call or leave a message? Anything I should know about?"

Jackson paused for a second before cautiously answering, "Somebody called your cell phone the night you left."

"Where's my phone?"

Nodding towards the kitchen counter, Jackson replied, "On top of the newspaper."

Jonathan treaded over to the phone, and, sure enough, there was his cell phone sitting on top of the obituaries. Picking up his phone and pushing away the paper, Jonathan pressed a series of buttons before holding the phone to his ear. Jackson watched patiently as Jonathan listened to faint chatter coming from the device. After about twenty seconds, Jonathan sighed and removed the phone from his ear.

Quietly and politely, Jackson asked, "Who was it?"

Sounding somewhat irritated, Jonathan answered, "Leon. He left a message about his car."

"You going to call him back?"

Not seeming to notice, or care about, Jackson's uncharacteristic curiosity, Jonathan shook his head. "It was nothing. I'll talk to him on Monday."

Biting his lip, Jackson asked, "You sure?"

Annoyed, Jonathan snapped, "_Yes_, I'm sure." Sighing in frustration, he said, "I'm going to get some sleep." And without another word, he stalked into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Jackson sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. This wasn't good. Any other time, Jackson would have been irritated by his brother's reception. He'd have made some wise-ass comments and pointed out that when he'd left, it had been _him_ who'd said he'd wished his brother had died, not Jackson. At any other time, Jackson would have accused him of being the biggest fucking hypocrite on the face of the planet, and would have probably stalked off to wander Gotham uninterrupted.

However, this wasn't any other time, and Jackson had a dilemma.

Quietly walking to the kitchen counter, Jackson picked up the newspaper that he'd purposely placed beneath the cell phone, and which Jonathan had carelessly discarded. Looking at the obituaries, Jackson easily found the small photo of Leon, his face smiling up at Jackson cheerfully. Underneath was a small blurb describing his life and who he was survived by. At the bottom of the blurb, there was a note stating: "Funeral services will be held at noon on Sunday…" which went on to list the address for the funeral and for the reception.

Folding the paper up, Jackson tried to figure out some way to alert Jonathan without being obvious about what he was doing. But he knew that the only thing he could do was leave the obituaries out in the open, and even _that_ was a little suspicious. Jackson sighed, knowing that Jonathan could easily ignore the paper until Sunday had come and passed. But what else could he do?

Leaning on the counter, Jackson could feel his frustration mount, but he knew there was little he could do to alter the situation. He had only wanted to get rid of Leon, not hurt Jonathan in the process. And he knew that Jonathan would be crushed if he missed the funeral. But there didn't seem to be a way to inform him while remaining inconspicuous. Which really left him with two options: stay quiet, or basically tell Jonathan that he was responsible for Leon's death.

Jackson shook his head. As much as he might wish to soften the blow a bit for Jonathan, there was no way in hell that he'd tell Jonathan what he did. He wasn't exactly in the mood for being murdered himself.

On a whim, Jackson pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, revealing a picture of a much younger Lisa Reisert. He still had it, even months after he'd decided to keep it for the Keefe assignment. At first, it was simply practical: she would need proof that her father was in danger, and if he had her father's wallet and a photo of her, then she'd believe him. But he'd continued to keep it even after they'd tried to kill each other. Some small part of him simply didn't want to throw it away.

Jackson sighed. The Keefe assignment. His most memorable job, for the simple reason that it had been fucked up so badly. So many things had gone wrong, and so many mistakes had been made, especially by him. And in the end, he'd had to go on the run, with a scar on his throat and two bullet wounds in his abdomen. And here he was, stuck in Gotham for however long his brother was willing to tolerate him.

Looking back at the photo, Jackson remembered Lisa's face as the blood had poured out of him, his back aching sharply as he lay on top of the shattered glass of the door. He'd only been a few feet away from his colleague's dead body, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd be joining him in his march to hell. But he'd lived. He'd lived to watch Lisa smile a little as they'd loaded him into the ambulance, sirens blaring as they handcuffed him to a stretcher.

He probably should have hated her more for what she'd done to him. If it had been any other hostage, he'd have gone back and done anything he could to destroy everything they loved before killing them in a cruel, agonizing fashion. But Lisa was different. True, he'd tried to kill her, but his rage had subsided somewhat.

It was because of what she'd told him. The scar, the parking lot, the rape. Any other woman who might have said the same thing would have been met with cold indifference, or a mocking attitude towards her pain. But when Lisa had told him, the memories had come rushing back to him. Suddenly, Lisa was no longer a simple hostage; she was a familiar face from two years ago, and Jackson had felt sick when he realized why Lisa was different than every other hostage.

The thing that made Lisa different was that Jackson knew the man who had raped her.


	17. Fragile Normality

Sorry I took so long to update. Everything's been kind of hectic, between prom, graduation, Fourth of July, and a job hunt. Anyway, I come bearing fifteen more pages of Jonathan-Jackson goodness.

By the way, if anyone's interested, I have a new fic up called 'Salome's Dance'. It's a one-shot, and I'd be thrilled if you guys would read it and leave reviews.

Anyway, on with the fic!

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood  
_Fragile Normality_

_Stalking down the staircase as the sound of his alarm clock continued to ring in his ears, Jonathan rubbed his eyes and yawned. He made his way down the steps slowly, as if by doing so he could delay breakfast, delay school, delay everything to the point where he could return to his warm sheets and pillow._

_Padding tiredly into the kitchen, Jonathan could see Helen and Tyler already seated at the table. Helen was absentmindedly munching a bagel as she reviewed the newspaper, while Tyler chomped on sugary cereal as he attempted to make sense of the comics section. As Jonathan entered, Helen looked up at him and smiled warmly. "Morning, Jonathan." He mumbled a "good morning" in reply, vaguely wondering how his relatives could be such morning people before making his way to one of the kitchen's cabinets. There, he grabbed a box of Pop-tarts, extracted a pastry, and then made his way back to his seat, quarry in hand. Unceremoniously, he unwrapped his breakfast from its plastic trappings before proceeding to eat it cold._

_By the time his pastry had been chewed and swallowed, he was starting to feel less groggy. With slightly more energy, he walked to the refrigerator to grab a can of soda, trying to remember if he had put all of his books in his backpack the night before. If not, he had the joy of scouring his room for his textbooks to look forward to. Once he had his drink in his hand, he returned to his seat, still mulling over where all his school supplies were strewn. Helen, upon his return, looked up at him and Tyler and asked, "So, are you two coming home on the bus, or are you staying after school?"_

Jonathan replied, "Taking the bus," before sipping his soda. Tyler answered, "Matt asked a bunch of us over to his house after school. I told him I could go."

Helen nodded. "Okay then."

Tyler turned to Jonathan, adding, "He'd probably let you come, too, if you want."

Smiling only slightly, Jonathan shook his head. "That's okay. Besides, I've got an appointment with Dr. Braden, right?" he asked Helen. She nodded, adding, "At four."

_Tyler shrugged. "Okay," he said, letting the issue rest, and the three of them returned to their breakfasts._

As he rode the bus to school later that day, Jonathan reflected on the normality of his daily existence, that morning included. Back in Tennessee, he had never lived life so conventionally, so routinely. But he'd picked up the habits of his new household, and it no longer seemed strange to follow to schedule of the two Bouviers. It was his life now, as well as theirs. Looking back, it seemed hard to believe that it had only been three years since he'd arrived in Gotham.

He had adjusted fairly easily to his new life, despite his "conversations" with his brother. He had adapted to his new school with ease, though he was no longer allowed to show up late or skip classes. Since he had little to do outside of classes, Jonathan ended up channeling much of his energy into schoolwork, which paid off enormously. Once he started to pay attention and do his homework, he excelled in his classes and earned several scholastic honors. His guidance counselor would tell him often that he'd have no difficulties getting into prestigious universities once he graduated, a fact that impressed his cousin and Helen took pride in.

_He hadn't done nearly as well in the social arena, not that he really cared one way or the other. He simply didn't relate well to his peers, and he really wasn't one with many social graces. He preferred to be left to his own devices, and people seemed willing to leave him alone. He might have been a target for bullying were it not for the interference of Tyler, his polar opposite. Tyler was popular among his classmates, and would instruct others to leave Jonathan alone. However, that didn't stop him from trying to include his cousin among his group of friends, offering invitations to go to the movies with his buddies or to visit a friend's house. Jonathan would always decline, but he did appreciate the sincerity behind the offers._

_Ever since Tyler had stumbled in on him rambling like a lunatic to himself, Jonathan had been going to therapy with Dr. Braden, Helen and Tyler's grief therapist from when Mr. Bouvier had died. She was reputed to be one of the best in the area, but Jonathan simply hated her. She was always uptight, treating Jonathan like a specimen in a Petri dish. Jonathan was in no means quiet about his distaste for her, telling her several times to her face that he could probably do her job better than she could. Every time he did so, she would purse her lips, jot some notes on a notepad, and remain silent._

Helen, despite expressing some amusement at his dislike of Dr. Braden, refused to let him switch therapists. She liked Dr. Braden, and was confident in her abilities. Besides, she would note, why switch therapists when he seemed to have gotten much better since he arrived in Gotham?

_He didn't have the heart to tell her that he still had…outbursts._

_Even then, after three years of grief therapy and treatment, Jonathan still liked to talk to Jackson. He no longer deluded himself into thinking that Jackson was actually there, but he would pretend that Jackson could hear him sometimes, as though they had a previously unrecognized psychic connection. He wouldn't talk out loud, or anything like that, and he only did it on rare occasions. But it was something that he didn't want to stop doing._

In a way, he had yet to let go of Jackson. He had yet to stop thinking of himself as Jackson's Little Brother, and he didn't want to think that someone he was so attached to might be gone forever. Even as Dr. Braden frequently told him that his brother was dead and buried, Jonathan would remind himself that he knew full well that his brother hadn't died. There was always the chance that Jackson would come back for him, that they'd reunite and things would go back to the way they were before…

_But, deep down, he knew the reality of the situation. Jackson wasn't coming back. For all Jonathan knew, he could very well be dead. And things could never be the same as they were before. All of this made Jonathan feel an overwhelming sense of frustration, and it led to him rebelling against reality in any way he could. And the most common was talking to his brother in his head._

_Then there were more violent expressions of Jonathan's emotions. Sometimes he would deliberately break things before pretending that he'd done it accidentally. He once bought a BB gun that he used to shoot at pigeons in the park, smiling at the way their insides splattered against the pavement. He'd buy dolls or stuffed animals and sneak into hidden alleyways in the area and set the toys on fire, pretending they were voodoo dolls of those who'd wronged him. But the most violent of these little escapades was what he'd done to his cousin's dog._

Tyler'd had a dog named Bailey. It was a collie that Tyler had received as a puppy on his tenth birthday. He'd loved that damn dog to pieces, spoiling it rotten with treats and toys. He never forgot to walk it or feed it, and was always more nervous about taking him to the vet than the dog was.

That dog had hated Jonathan with a vengeance not normally found in animals. Whenever it was in the same room as him, it would bark its head off or growl incessantly, refusing to let up until Jonathan left the room, even as Helen tried to shush him. The few times that Jonathan had been forced to feed it had been nightmares, with the dog barking even more persistently and nipping at Jonathan's fingers. Jonathan grew to loathe that dog, half-wishing that it would be hit by a car or get mauled by a bigger animal.

_On the one-year anniversary of his parents' deaths, Jonathan had been moping around the house by himself. Tyler was out with friends, and Helen was at a session with Dr. Braden. Jonathan was feeling depressed and miserable, and he simply wanted to be left alone to his thoughts. He had wandered into the kitchen, hoping to grab a soda, but the dog was sleeping in there. Jonathan's entrance woke him, and he started to let out a series of angry snarls. Jonathan merely rolled his eyes, attempting to get past the dog so that he could reach the fridge. But the dog wouldn't move, still intent on barking incessantly._

_Irritated, Jonathan had attempted to push the dog aside with one hand, but Bailey would have none of that. A second later, a sharp set of teeth embedded themselves in Jonathan's arm, and he let out a loud cry of pain. The dog quickly let go, wearing as triumphant an expression as a canine can wear._

_Leaning against the wall, Jonathan hissed in pain as he tried to recover his bearings. His eyes settled on the dog as the bite marks throbbed with a dull pain. Holding his arm, Jonathan had stared at the dog with rage bubbling inside of him. He didn't move for several seconds, simply watching the animal with icy eyes. As tiny beads of blood formed in the holes left by the dog's teeth, Jonathan had slowly stood up and walked to the silverware drawer. Eyes still on the furry, satisfied animal, Jonathan opened the drawer gradually before reaching in and pulling out a large bread knife._

_The dog, despite his dislike for Jonathan, seemed to be surprised when he pounced on him._

_Half an hour later, Jonathan's arms were covered with even more bite marks, and he had been forced to change into a long-sleeved shirt to cover them. Bailey, however, had fared far worse. Jonathan had managed to completely sever the dog's head from the rest of its body, and its organs had nearly spilled out of a long slit in its abdomen. Even after the damn thing had died, Jonathan had continued to hack away at it, getting lost in the delusion that he was still in the woods in Tennessee, taking apart some woodland critter that he'd discovered with Jackson. When he'd finished, he'd simply sat and stared at what was left, feeling no remorse as he tried to figure out a way to cover up what he'd done._

_He had put the body in a garbage bag with various other trash and had left it by the front of the house, where a garbage truck would pick it up the next morning. He had mopped up the blood and washed his hands before retiring to his room and turning on the radio, serenely listening to rock and roll as though nothing unusual had happened._

_That evening, when Tyler asked him if he'd seen Bailey, Jonathan merely replied that he'd seen him running around the backyard at some point that afternoon._

_When the dog didn't resurface by the next day, Tyler began to hunt for him more feverishly, asking neighbors if they'd spotted him and wandering around the area calling his name. When he returned to the house that night, Helen suggested that maybe Bailey would return on his own. Guilt welled up inside Jonathan as he watched his cousin, but he always played along, pretending that the dog had run away and was fully capable of returning._

_Tyler had been despondent for weeks afterwards, always staring out the windows to see if his dog had miraculously returned. It made Jonathan's stomach twist in knots, and he felt bad for what he had done. But there was simply no way he could ever tell Tyler or Helen what he'd done to Bailey. He'd have to carry that particular secret with him to the grave._

_Helen and Tyler were all he had now, after he had already lost Jackson. If he lost them, too, he didn't think he could bear it._

-----

Sunday passed without much incident in Jonathan's apartment. Jonathan spent the day running errands, while Jackson appeared to sleep all day. When Jonathan had left the apartment at around noon, Jackson had still been asleep. When Jonathan had returned later, he had been awake, but he seemed distant and non-talkative. He'd eventually gone back to sleep at around eight. Jonathan figured he must have been running around Gotham all weekend, like he always was.

Lisa had been nice to him when he'd told her he was leaving for Gotham. She'd asked if he'd enjoyed his stay, if his room had been comfortable, all the things that hotel employees had been trained to ask. But her expression had been tranquil, meditative. Judging from the way she looked at him, she probably thought that they had a connection because of their links to Jackson.

_Careful, Lisa. Girls like you shouldn't associate with madmen._

In any event, their parting had been pleasant, almost like that of old friends. One wouldn't have suspected that they'd merely spent five minutes chatting one evening, but the both of them knew that it had been an important five minutes, nonetheless. They both knew of someone else in the universe that had been deeply affected by the same man. Jonathan wondered if she'd be hurt to know that he harbored that very man under his roof.

Getting back to Miami had been irritating, but it went smoothly for the most part. Through some persuasion and some under-the-table bribery (Jackson wouldn't notice a few missing hundreds, would he?), Jonathan had gotten airplane tickets for Ra's Al Ghul and company ahead of time. Their flight had gone without a hitch, and no one seemed to be suspicious regarding the large amount of Bhutanese men onboard. When they'd arrived at Gotham, Jonathan had put them up at a local hotel, where he had made reservations earlier. Again, if anyone seemed at all suspicious, they certainly didn't say anything about it.

But such was Gotham. Strange things happened with such frequency that skepticism had all but vanished.

One thing that had surprised Jonathan was Ra's Al Ghul himself. The man claiming to bear that title had seemed awkward and ill-fitted to lead so many men. Jonathan had expected a strong, charismatic man to be the one leading so many followers, but he'd been severely disappointed. The man had barely spoken a word, answering all inquiries in monosyllabic grunts and gestures. By contrast, Henri Ducard was much more decisive and leader-like, yet he was being commanded by someone with very little skill with others.

Was there something to that, perhaps?

If so, Jonathan preferred not to think about it.

As Jonathan lay down to sleep that night, he mentally pored over his schedule for the next day. No meetings with Falcone, none with Ducard, and Ra's Al Ghul had already been attended to. Except for work, he had nothing to concern himself with the following day.

He thought of Leon, feeling slightly bad that he had never called him back. But no matter. He would see him the next day. Maybe if his afternoon was free, they could go out that evening. Leon had mentioned a movie he'd wanted to see before Jonathan left for Miami. Perhaps they could check the movie times and go to a showing.

Yes, that was it. They'd go to a movie the next day. And if they so chose, they could go to dinner afterwards and return to Leon's apartment. Even as he felt himself drifting off to sleep, Jonathan smiled at the thought.

Yes. That would certainly make up for a crappy weekend.

-----

"_How was your session with Dr. Braden?" Helen asked kindly as the two of them walked across the parking lot to her car. Jonathan wrinkled his nose, adjusting his glasses as he replied, "I don't like her."_

Helen, smiling at Jonathan's usual complaint, teased, "Maybe you'd like her better if you did all the things she asked you to do." She winked at him to show that she was joking, but she still meant it. Jonathan bit his lip. "She only tells me to do stupid things, like keeping a journal. What's the point? I already know how I'm feeling and what I've been doing, so writing about it is pointless. All I'd be doing is leaving a paper trail."

Chuckling lightly, Aunt Helen replied as she unlocked the driver's side door of the car, "I think it has a little more to do with having an outlet."

Sliding into the passenger seat, Jonathan murmured, "Just like an electrical plug."

Helen laughed a little at that before adding, "I wouldn't be too hard on Dr. Braden if I were you. She's just trying to help."

Jonathan sighed, rolling down the window. "I know, I know."

Helen turned the key in the ignition, and the radio flickered to life. The default setting was to an oldies station, Helen's favorite music style. Staring out the window, Jonathan could hear the chorus of 'Eleanor Rigby' pouring from the speakers.

_Even without looking to his left, he knew that his aunt was mouthing the words. She didn't even realize she was doing it most of the time. Whenever a song came on that she knew the words to, it would be a natural motion for her lips to form the words, even though her voice never sang along. Whenever anyone pointed it out to her, she would blink in surprise before saying, "Oh! I suppose I was, wasn't I?"_

Jonathan smiled a little. He liked his aunt. It was things like the lip-synching that made her seem human to him, a warm-blooded, big-hearted human with all the quirks and characteristics a human should have. He had never seen enough of his mother to be able to see her as more than a stony face, one that would appear at random before vanishing as soon as it had appeared. She had been a phantasm, a ghost in his memories that never held any lasting importance. The only clear memory of his mother, one untainted by time or forgetfulness, was of her last night alive, when she has screamed like a banshee as bullets flew into her at rapid speed.

_It was not a memory Jonathan liked to look back on._

_In any event, Helen had proved to be more of a mother to him than he'd have expected when he'd first arrived at her house three years before. He'd sort of figured that she'd eventually ignore or forget him, the way his mother had. She had her own life, her own son to worry about. She probably didn't have the time or energy to deal with her emotionally unstable nephew._

_But Jonathan had, to his surprise and gratitude, been proven wrong. When Tyler had come to her with reports of Jonathan having delusions of seeing his dead brother, Helen had done what a concerned mother would do for her child: she got help for him. She took him to a therapist (in this case, the infamous Dr. Braden) who had been able to treat him. With some medication and frequent grief-therapy sessions, Jonathan emerged from his deluded fog. He wasn't always happy about it, but he started to realize the fact that his brother wasn't coming back for him any time soon._

_Even as her nephew was forced to take three kinds of pills for several weeks, Helen never treated him as a burden, even though he suspected that his therapy sessions didn't come cheap. Instead, she fussed over him, worrying constantly that he would slip into another delusional state. Tyler, too, had grown concerned, having seen firsthand how potent Jonathan's grief had become. It was almost as though they'd known him his whole life, the way they treated him._

_Jonathan remembered sitting in the car with his aunt during his first year living with her. It was his second week of therapy, and they were traveling swiftly towards Dr. Braden's office. Hugging his knees to his chest and staring directly ahead, he had asked her coldly, "Why do you care?"_

She hadn't answered right away. Maybe she didn't hear him right away, or she didn't understand what he meant. After a few seconds, all she did was ask, "What?"

"Why do you even care? Why do you keep going to all this trouble for me?"

_She had paused again, probably to consider her answer. Jonathan had refused to look at her, continuing to stare at the front of the car. He had eventually heard a reply, stated calmly in her warm alto voice._

"_You're my nephew. If I don't watch out for you, then who will? Besides…" And even without looking, Jonathan knew she'd said this with a knowing wink, "I think I like having you around."_

He hadn't said anything in reply. He had continued to look away with a moody determination, as though this were somehow her fault. It wasn't until later that he realized what an ass he had been.

-----

When Jonathan returned to work that Monday, his bad mood had faded somewhat, but he was still a bit irritable when he arrived at Arkham Asylum. Not particularly keen on talking to his more annoying colleagues, Jonathan spent his time avoiding social contact that did not involve any of his patients. By the time his workday was due to end, he was almost in a good mood, somewhat relaxed by the hours spent with patients.

As he was about to go his office and gather his things to go home, Jonathan took out his cell phone and checked for any new messages. There weren't any, but he did notice the one that Leon had left before he traveled to Miami. Feeling slightly guilty once more, he realized that he hadn't talked to him at all during the day. Changing direction, he decided to go seek Leon out, and perhaps see if he still wanted to go see that movie.

When he reached Leon's office, he was surprised to find it almost completely devoid of papers and files, a far cry from the unholy mess that usually resided there. Even odder was the fact that all of Leon's knickknacks were gone as well: his coffee mugs, his tchotchkes, his picture frame that still held the sample photo from the photographer's shop, etc. It was as if someone had decided to erase Leon's presence from the room, leaving it sterile and cold. It confused Jonathan, and he felt a small sense of foreboding as he exited the office.

Deciding that the easiest place to find other doctors in the building was the watercooler, Jonathan headed in that direction, vaguely wondering where Leon could possibly be. Maybe he'd gotten fired? Or he quit? But even as he thought about those options, Jonathan knew that Leon would have called if that had been the case. Perhaps they'd moved his office to a different room?

As he rounded the corner leading to the watercooler, Jonathan could see Harlene Quinzel standing by herself, probably waiting for someone else to arrive so that the daily gossip could be exchanged. Upon seeing Jonathan approach her, she smiled slightly and greeted him.

"Hey there, Dr. Crane."

Skipping a returned greeting, Jonathan asked outright, "Have you seen Dr. Warren anywhere?"

She blinked, seeming confused. "What?"

"Have you seen Dr. Warren anywhere? I need to talk to him."

Looking at him suspiciously, she asked, "Are you trying to be funny?"

Jonathan shook his head fervently. "No. Have you seen him at all?"

Harlene frowned at him for a second or two before her face became uncontorted as she realized, "You were away last week, right?"

Looking at her cautiously, Jonathan nodded, slowly stating, "Yes…"

Face falling slightly, she asked, "So no one told you?"

Heart beating faster as a sense on anxiety arose, Jonathan tentatively wondered, "Told me what?"

Speaking quietly, as though they were conspirators to a crime, she responded, "Leon got into an accident about five days ago."

Jonathan stared at her, as though waiting for her to smile and reveal it to be a joke. But as he continued to look at her, no punchline came, and Jonathan suddenly began to feel very, very ill.

Taking his silence as a cue to continue, Harlene resumed telling the story. "His car flipped over a cliff or something. They said in the papers that he'd been drinking…something about his BAC being pretty high."

Heart pounding furiously in his chest, Jonathan asked, "Is he…is he alright?"

Harlene shook her head. "They said he was dead when they arrived."

Jonathan's face grew as pale as chalk when he heard her. His hands began to shake, and some small part of him wanted to say that it was impossible, that Leon couldn't die. Not then, not ever. It simply couldn't happen, and she was a filthy liar if she tried to make it seem otherwise.

Softly, Jonathan asked, "When is the funeral?"

Harlene paused to think for a second before answering. "I think it was yesterday."

Nodding slowly, Jonathan replied, "Oh." Attempting to appear unaffected, he looked at Harlene and said, "Alright, then. Have a good day, Harlene."

Looking somewhat concerned, Harlene answered, "You too, Dr. Crane."

Without another word, Jonathan stalked away from Harlene, trying to appear calm and unfeeling. But as soon as he rounded a corner, the façade evaporated. Jonathan found himself leaning against the wall, shaking as his legs threatened to give out beneath him. Pressing his palms against his eyes, Jonathan tried to absorb what Harlene had told him. Leon had been in an accident. He'd gone off of a cliff. He'd died.

But when he thought about it, his heart ached sharply, and his thoughts rebelled. He needed proof. He needed to see evidence of some kind, something that would show that this wasn't just a lie or a joke.

Standing upright, Jonathan decided to make his way to his office. Couriers always delivered newspapers to each of the doctors at Arkham, and they'd have left them for him even during his absence. Walking like a man possessed, he went into his office, slamming the door behind him and searching frantically for the newspapers. After only a few seconds, he found them neatly stacked underneath his desk.

Immediately grabbing the paper at the bottom, Jonathan found the one from five days ago as the rest flew across the floor in a flurry. Flipping through the pages, he tried to find the obituaries, but something caught his eye in the 'Local News' section.

"_MAN DRIVES CAR OFF CLIFF: Police say he was driving drunk_"

There was an article underneath, describing in detail how Leon had been crushed on impact before his body was incinerated by the flaming wreckage of the car. But Jonathan paid little attention to it, instead focusing on the black-and-white photo situated above it.

It was of Leon's car after the crash, surrounded by 'Caution' tape and policemen examining the scene. Leon's body had been removed, leaving only the charred remains of the car to look at. It was obvious that the car had flipped during the drop, since the vehicle lay belly-up with its tires poking up at the sky helplessly. The roof of the car was completely crumpled in, and the sides appeared to have caved from the weight of the bottom of the vehicle. It looked like a bizarre accordion, blackened by soot and by the burning it had endured. As Jonathan looked at the photo more closely, he could make out the faint scratches of 'Die Fag Die' on the collapsed doors, the message having faded from the charring brought by the fire.

Putting the paper down, Jonathan found himself shivering. Leon had been inside of that…_thing_. He'd been it in when it crashed, and he'd been in it as it began to burn, the flames eating away at the wreckage. Jonathan could only imagine it, the feeling of lightness as the car fell before the sharp pain of being crushed inside, right before the flames spread and the fire began to slowly and painfully eat away at him…

Feeling bile rise in his throat, Jonathan rushed to a wastebasket and began to throw up, trying to push these thoughts from his head. But as his mind conjured up images of twisted metal and agonizing infernos, he continued to puke into the trashcan.

When his stomach had settled down, Jonathan sat on the floor, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. This couldn't be happening. It was simply impossible. The car in the photo could not have held Leon inside, because Leon was alive and well somewhere. Anything else would be unthinkable.

Jonathan tried to reason with himself, trying to prove that Leon was fine somewhere. The police had made a mistake. Yes, that was it. The police had erred when they found the car. Leon must have lent it to someone else, and the fire had eaten at the face of whoever it was. So when the cops found him, they merely _assumed_ it was Leon, even thought Leon was really okay, unaware of what had occurred as he stayed safely in his apartment. After all, the police had been wrong before. They'd said Jackson had died, but that obviously wasn't true, was it?

Even to Jonathan, the argument sounded stupid.

Getting up carefully, Jonathan leaned against the closest wall, his legs still feeling like weak rubber. Looking around, he felt a kind of pressure building up. He felt trapped and claustrophobic, the hospital serving as a standing reminder of Leon and his death.

Still shaking, Jonathan gathered his things and quickly walked out of the building. Exiting from one of the side entrances, Jonathan pressed his palm to his forehead, trying to calm himself and appear unaffected. But the more he did so, the more he felt ill and the more he envisioned the wreckage of the car, lying there like turtle on its back and its legs in the air. And Leon had been _inside_…

Jonathan's thoughts were interrupted when a hand stuck out in front of him, a flat palm that was at about the level of Jonathan's stomach.

"Got any change?"

Looking down and to his right, Jonathan saw a homeless man sitting against the wall of Arkham, his clothes dirty and ratty. Next to him was a small, sleeping dog, similarly filthy and decrepit. They both sat on top of a fleece blanket, which seemed fairly clean despite an abundance of dog hairs on it.

Not having received a response from Jonathan, the man asked once again, "Got any change?"

Irritated, Jonathan snapped, "No." He made a step forward when the man asked, "You don't have _any_ change? Not even a dime or a nickel?"

Turning back to look at him, Jonathan answered, "No. Stop asking me."

"Look, I know you're lying. Your tag says you're a doctor, you must have _some_ money on you. I haven't got anything but my dog. Can't I just have a few cents?"

Jonathan glared at the man, a cold hatred slowly building up inside of him. He didn't want to deal with this. Leon was _dead_, and here he was arguing pointlessly. Couldn't this man find someone else to bother?

Glancing to his left and right, Jonathan saw no one else around. It made sense: the street was really little more than an alleyway between Arkham and the next building over. Looking back at the expectant homeless man, Jonathan sighed. "Fine."

Smiling genuinely and gratefully, the man said, "Thank you, sir." Jonathan resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he reached into his briefcase. Smirking slightly, he pulled out a worn piece of burlap, warranting a confused look from the homeless man.

"What's that?"

Smiling cruelly, Jonathan calmly lifted the burlap over his head.

"My mask."

As the fear toxin emerged in a puff of white smoke, the man seemed confused for a few seconds. When he inhaled the toxin, however, his pupils dilated and his face grew pale as he stared up at Jonathan, whose face had melted away in favor of a more terrifying visage. Gaping at him, the man screamed, awaking his dog. Terrified, the canine began to bark loudly at Jonathan in a poor attempt to defend his master.

Jonathan remained impassive. When the homeless man continued screaming, Jonathan watched him curiously before swiftly kicking him in the face. When he did so, the man clutched his head, groaning in pain. The dog continued to bark furiously at Jonathan, its teeth bared and its body in a fighting stance.

Jonathan turned his attention to the dog, having taken care of its master. Impassively, he kicked the dog as well, causing it to whimper for a second before continuing to loudly make itself heard. Once more, Jonathan kicked it squarely in its ribs, causing it to fall over. As it lay there, Jonathan seized the opportunity to stomp on the dog's neck repeatedly with his right foot, silencing it as blood came out of its throat.

Jonathan turned back to the man clutching his face, who was staring up at Jonathan as though he had found the devil walking amongst men. Removing his mask, Jonathan looked down at him dispassionately, uncaring as to his current state of fear.

Reaching into his pocket, Jonathan pulled out two quarters. He tossed it to the ground before muttering, "Buy yourself something nice."

With that, he strode away, leaving the dead dog and the now-insane man behind as he headed towards the parking lot.


	18. Unplanned

I'm really, really sorry that this took so long. I was originally planning to have this one really huge chapter ready by now, but it's been taking longer than expected. So I've split it into three, maybe two sections that will be posted as separate chapters. I was also planning on having Lisa's rapist revealed by the next chapter, but that's probably going to take longer than expected as well.

If it's any comfort, I think this chapter came out pretty well. Ray gets to play a more prominent role, which I think is nice. I like writing him a lot more than writing Laurence, since, well…Laurence is an ass.

Once again, I'm _really _sorry about all the delays. I'm trying the best I can. The next one or two chapters shouldn't take as long, since they're half-written already.

By the way, props to anyone who can spot the section where two characters quote two lines Red Eye dialogue.

-----

A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Unplanned_

_It was over a year before Guiteau mentioned the Iran assignment again. By that point, Jackson had completely forgotten about it, as had Ray and Laurence. They'd gone about their usual lives, taking regular assignments and earning their keep through bloodshed. By the time Guiteau called them into his office early one afternoon, they had absolutely no idea what prompted him to summon them._

_Without introduction or greetings, Guiteau got right to the point. "The reason I have brought you to my office is to fill you in on further information regarding the Iran assignment," Guiteau said calmly and patiently. Even as his three employees stared at him in bewilderment from having forgotten their prior meeting on the subject, Guiteau continued. "I have received confirmation for the assignment by my supervisor, and you three have been sent tourist visas and airplane tickets to Tehran."_

All business, Ray asked, "When do we need to be there?"

"A week from today."

Jackson arched an eyebrow at this, surprised by the unusually close launch date. "Why so soon?"

Guiteau gave a light shrug. "I am simply relating what I have been told by my higher-up. My supervisor chose not to tell me why that particular date was chosen."

Jackson wasn't completely sure what to think of that. Ray, on the other hand, asked almost immediately, "Has your supervisor said anything about the nature of the assignment?"

"Such as?"

"Well, what will we need to do when we get there?"

There was a small pause before Guiteau answered plainly, "It is my understanding that you will receive the full details of the assignment upon your arrival at the Iranian headquarters."

Laurence, seeming to be in a somewhat sour mood, noted in a dry tone, "Wonderful. So all you can tell us is that we're going, not what we're going for or what the point is of going."

"Well, that, and you should probably start packing," Guiteau replied as sweetly as he could manage. "Your visas and tickets will be mailed to your rooms. Make sure you pack your passports and all other necessary identification. Any more questions?"

Having finally managed to recall their previous discussion regarding the assignment, Jackson inquired, "Wasn't Sal supposed to be on this assignment with us?"

With a slight sense of distaste in his voice, Guiteau responded, "Mr. Salvador is currently on assignment in South Carolina, but I have passed the information on to him."

"What information?" Laurence muttered before Ray elbowed him in the side.

_Guiteau ignored Laurence's remark, stating almost cheerfully, "Well, if none of you have any more questions, then let us adjourn. Have a nice day, gentlemen."_

_And just as abruptly as it had began, the meeting ended, and the three younger men were shuffled out of the office hastily._

-----

Jackson had known that Jonathan wouldn't react well to the news of Leon's death. It was inevitable that he would grieve and be upset, but that was natural. So the day that Jonathan went back to work, when Jackson knew his brother would learn of his lover's demise, Jackson made a point of going out that afternoon to leave Jonathan some time alone to mourn. He wasn't exactly sure how his brother would react to the news. He certainly didn't expect to come home that evening to find Jonathan sitting still in the midst of the kitchen, surrounded by the shattered remains of half the mugs and glasses in the apartment. However, that was the sight that greeted him upon his return to the apartment.

The floor was a war zone, with tiny fragments of ceramic and glass littering the floor in various patterns, swirling in strange colors like a mutated rainbow. Sitting in the center of the bizarre mosaic was Jonathan, slumped in one of the kitchen chairs. With his elbows firmly planted on his knees and his hands dangled over his feet, Jonathan remained motionless, and Jackson could see droplets of blood falling from his palms onto the tops of his shoes.

The expression on Jonathan's face was unreadable. He stared out tranquilly, his eyes glazed over behind the lens of his glasses. His mouth was drawn tight, as though he'd swallowed something sour and unpleasant. His hair fell over his face in disarray, and Jackson could see that his brother had lost all pretense of appearing professional. He looked deranged right then, from the stillness of his pose to the design of the shards that lay at his feet.

Jackson stepped into the room carefully, crunching the fragments of glassware beneath his feet. Jonathan didn't even blink, remaining as still as a corpse might. He wouldn't even move when Jackson stood right next to him, looming over and doing his best to look for any trace of recognition in his brother's face.

Eventually, when his brother continued to say nothing, his body stiffly remaining as it was even as the blood continued from his hands to his feet, Jackson attempted to speak. Tentatively, with as much caution as he could sneak into his voice, he asked, "Scarecrow?"

It was as though he'd attempted to speak to a statue. Jonathan didn't react at all, not even blinking. As Jackson stood there, awaiting some sort of sign from his brother, the only noise that could be heard was the faint, shaky noise of Jonathan's breath forcing its way past his teeth.

Making another attempt at communication, Jackson called, "Scarecrow," once more. When he received no answer, Jackson tried a more forceful, "_Scarecrow_."

Jonathan blinked, but he remained frozen. Frustrated, Jackson bit his lip and frowned. Leaning over, he snapped his fingers in front of his brother's face, calling out more loudly, "_Scarecrow!"_

Not even a blink this time. Jackson vaguely wondered if it was possible to die sitting in that position, but the rattled breaths that coursed out of his brother's mouth seemed to indicate that Jonathan was, indeed, alive.

Attempting a different approach, Jackson sighed and stated simply, "Jonathan."

Ever so slightly, Jonathan tilted his head in the direction of his brother, eyes wide and emotionless. Jackson, hoping that this was some sort of response, asked, "Jonathan, what happened?"

Jonathan said nothing, looking as though he had forgotten, somehow, exactly what had made him destroy the kitchen. But after a few seconds, his lips parted, and in a raspy voice, he answered, "Leon died."

Jackson felt somewhat surprised, not by the message, but by the tone with which it was spoken. Jonathan had stated it calmly, as though announcing the train schedule. But his voice had been hoarse and harsh, as though all the energy had gone out his throat, out of his entire _body_ for that matter.

Jackson really hadn't prepared a response for that one. For one thing, there was no way in hell he could pretend to be comforting. He was far from the "I'm so sorry, come cry on my shoulder" type. And secondly, there was no way he could muster up faux mournfulness on the part of Leon. He knew full well that there was no way he could feel any kind of regret for the deceased doctor, and Jonathan would know it, too.

After several seconds of consideration, Jackson managed to ask, "How…what exactly happened in here?"

Jonathan, his eyes still staring dazedly at the world, glanced around the kitchen as though he hadn't noticed the mess surrounding him until then. As he took in the sight of the various shards and fragments strewn across the ground, he almost seemed as confused as Jackson was. It was as though he, too, had no idea how the kitchen had become such an unholy mess.

Jackson, still persistent, changed his tactics once again. "What happened to your _hands?_"

Jonathan, still dazed, turned his wrists so that his palms were facing him, and he could see clearly the pools of blood that had formed. He stared curiously at his hands, as though just noticing the sharp gashes that were dashed into them. As his eyes watched the little rivulets of blood on his fingers, his mouth formed a circle, and he emitted a small "Oh."

As the pools reversed direction and began sliding down towards his wrists, Jonathan tried to remember. He had hurt his wrists…why? Because of the shards on the ground. But how had they gotten there? He'd…he'd smashed them. He'd taken all the coffee mugs and the glasses out of the cupboards and started throwing them against the wall in a flurry. But why had he done that? Because…because…

The coffee mugs had reminded him of something. What had it been?

"_Why don't we go grab some coffee…?"_

Leon. They'd gone to that coffee house. That was the first time they'd really talked to each other. It had been a catalyst for everything that followed. The dinners, the kiss, the sex, _everything_. That was what had upset him. The coffee mugs had reminded him of the coffee house, which had reminded him of Leon, which had reminded him of everything that Leon _meant_. And thinking of Leon made him upset because…

Because…

…because he was dead.

As though the realization had just hit him, Jonathan found his hands shaking violently. Trying to ignore these newfound tremors of grief, he put his hands on his knees, staining the fabric of his pant legs with the blood. This did not go unnoticed by Jackson.

"Jonathan, are you going to be alright?"

"Leon's dead," Jonathan murmured hoarsely, and suddenly his whole body was trembling. Jackson, unsure of what to do, remained silent as his brother started to shake more and more violently. Jonathan, overcome with a fresh wave of grief, hung his head as though in shame.

Jackson stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say or do. He wondered if it might be better to leave Jonathan alone, but as he surveyed the remains of the coffee mugs that now lay on the ground, he decided that this was probably not a good idea. Finally, he stepped carefully towards the sink before crouching down. Reaching inside the cupboard underneath, he pulled out a dustpan and a brush, and began to sweep up the mess.

Jonathan didn't even seem to notice the activity going on only a few feet away from him. Instead, he remained as he was, trembling in his limp pose on the chair.

When Jackson had finished with the floor, he put away the dustpan and walked back over to his brother. Jonathan didn't respond, still caught in whatever reverie he had trapped himself in. Without any formalities, Jackson grabbed his brother's hands and examined them.

The palms were still wet with blood, and Jackson cringed. These must not have been narrow, shallow cuts, or else it would have congealed. Even as he held them right in front of his face, he was unable to see exactly where each gash lay, as both hands had half-congealed pools still sitting in the two palms.

He sighed slightly. Jonathan had managed to do quite a bit of damage to himself.

Letting go of his brother's hands, Jackson strode over to the bathroom, where Jonathan housed all of his first aid equipment. About twenty seconds later, he emerged carrying some gauze bandages and a damp washcloth.

Kneeling in front of his brother like a penitent sinner at confession, Jackson took the washcloth and began washing his brother's hands slowly and carefully, trying not to reopen and of the cuts. Even as he kept his gaze only on those hands, Jackson could tell that Jonathan was watching him. Trying his best not to notice it, Jackson merely continued to cleanse his hands as best he could.

It wasn't until Jackson was in the middle of wrapping the gauze around his brother's fingers that Jonathan finally spoke.

"I was angry."

Looking up, Jackson asked, "What?"

Jonathan, his gaze calm and unemotional, murmured, "I was angry." Shutting his eyes, he continued, "I threw all the glasses against the wall. And then…when I'd finished smashing all of them…I picked up the shards and tried to crush them. Against the wall, the table, in my hands, anything." He paused. "I didn't stop until I was too out of breath to do anything. So I sat down, and…" He shrugged slightly, as though he knew of nothing else to say.

"I see," Jackson said quietly, not sure what to say. With that clipped reply, Jonathan returned to his resolute silence, and Jackson finished wrapping the bandages around his brother's hands.

With that task complete, Jackson stood up and walked to the sink. His own hands had been stained by his brother's blood, the crimson liquid making a sticky mess on his fingers. He needed to wash it away, to clean off the discoloring on his palms.

Well, weren't they two regular Lady Macbeths.

-----

_Sure enough, Jackson found himself in the throngs of people milling around Miami International Airport a week after the meeting with Guiteau. As the crowds swarmed their way through various terminals, their incessant babbling painful to his ears, Jackson silently hoped that he would never have to deal with the hassle of air travel again._

_Eventually, he made his way past security to the correct gate, where he spotted Ray easily. Relieved to be in the correct location, he plopped into a seat next to his coworker without a greeting._

"_Glad you could make it," Ray stated casually, watching as Jackson shoved his carry-on bag under his seat. Jackson, scanning the crowd, asked, "Are Sal or Laurence here yet?"_

"No, not yet. I don't know about Sal, but Laurence'll probably be the last passenger to show up."

Jackson shrugged, unconcerned. "His loss."

Ray eyed Jackson's carry-on curiously for a second, sizing it up before asking, "About how much stuff did you bring?"

Jackson shrugged, trying to remember what he'd packed. "Probably enough for about a week. You?"

"Probably enough for two." Shaking his head slightly, Ray inquired, "Guiteau didn't tell you how long we'd be staying, did he?"

"I asked him, but he wouldn't tell me." Smirking slightly, Jackson noted, "Makes you wonder what kind of assignment they gave us. No info on what we're doing, or why we're going, or how long we'll be staying…must be something big."

Ray shrugged. "Either that, or Guiteau lost a fax somewhere along the line."

_Settling into his chair, Jackson ran over a list of what he'd packed for the trip. He had clothes, toiletries, his passport, his visa, his ticket, some books to read. He'd even converted a fair chunk of money into rials, a process that had involved more paperwork than he'd have cared for. But still, he was all set for the assignment at hand…well, he was as prepared as he was going to get, given the lack of information on the subject._

_Glancing next to him, he saw that Ray was poring through a thick paperback. Curious, he asked, "What're you reading?"_

Showing the cover, Ray explained, "Traveler's Guide to Iran. I figured it wouldn't hurt to read up on where we're going."

Jackson nodded. "Good thinking. Anything I should know?"

"_Don't plan on boozing while we're there."_

"Duly noted."

The terminal speakers suddenly began projecting a woman's voice, announcing loudly, "Flight 815 to Tehran will now begin boarding passengers. All parents and families with young children may begin boarding first."

_Jackson glanced around the seating area, searching for familiar faces. "Shit, where the hell are the other two?"_

Ray, not seeming particularly perturbed, stated, "No idea. Relax, we still have a few minutes before we need to board."

"We can't go to Iran missing half our group."

"Well, we can't exactly miss our flight to stay and wait for them, either." Glancing over at Jackson, Ray sighed. "Look, even if they don't make the flight, they can just get tickets to the next flight out. They might piss off the Iranian officials a little, but they won't do anything to them without Guiteau's say-so. And the worst Guiteau will do is give them a harsh talking to and maybe take away their weapons."

_Jackson sighed. "Whatever you say."_

The speaker flickered on again, and the woman's voice announced, "All remaining passengers may now begin boarding Flight 815 from Miami to Tehran. Thank you for choosing Iran Air, and have a pleasant flight."

Ray stood up, closing his book as he did so. "I guess that's us." Jackson, struggling to pick up his carry-on bag, muttered quietly, "Wonders never cease."

A minute or so later, the two men found themselves trudging to their seats with their bags in tow as their passengers around them chattered in Farsi. They had checked their ticket numbers already, and were scanning the plane for their seats. Jackson was situated in Seat 12B, while Ray sat directly in front of him in 11B.

_After they successfully managed to squeeze their way past the other people through first class, they happened into the coach section. Strangely enough, when they happened upon their seats, a familiar face was sitting in seat 12A, donning sunglasses as he read over the flight magazine._

"_Sal?" Jackson asked, an incredulous tone sneaking its way into his voice._

Sal, looking up to see his current team members, smirked happily. "Long time no see."

"_How'd you get onboard before us?"_

"Oh, that?" He shrugged. "I showed up when they first started boarding. I did what any truly rude American does and snuck aboard when they were calling on the families with kids." Glancing between Ray and Jackson, he inquired, "Aren't there supposed to be three of you?"

"Uh…" Jackson and Ray both glanced up and down the aisle in the hopes of seeing Laurence appear from thin air. And by pure luck, the two of them could faint hear a recognizable, "Excuse me!" above the din from the other end of the plane. A second or two later, Laurence emerged, striding his way past the other passengers towards them.

_Ray, seeming both relieved and irritated, welcomed him dryly. "You made it."_

"That would appear to be the case," Laurence commented, already opening the overhead compartment and shoving his carry-on bag inside. Sal, still smirking, put on some earphones before commenting, "Hail, hail, the gang's all here."

_Within a minute or two, all of them had successfully stored their bags, and were seated comfortably. Takeoff went smoothly, and soon they were soaring through the sky._

-----

"Did you know?" Jonathan asked abruptly, staring down at the bloody bandages strapped across his hands with something akin to fascination. It had been fifteen minutes since Jackson arrived, and he was only just beginning to come out of his daze.

Jackson, who was rummaging around the kitchen, asked, "Know what?"

"That Leon died." Even as his head hung limply on his neck, Jonathan attempted to recreate the scene in his memory. The crunch of the metal and glass as the car landed, the heat of the sparks on his face, the loud crackle of bright flames rising from the wreckage, the cries for help that no one would ever hear, the unbearable pain as blood oozed out from piercing wounds as the fire began to consume all that it touched…

"No." Jackson's response from the kitchen snapped him out of his visualization. Jonathan blinked for a second, attempting to recover from the potent daydream. From the kitchen, he could hear a clinking noise and the sound of the faucet running.

"It was in the paper," Jonathan stated weakly, remembering the blurb in the local news section from last week's paper.

"You know I don't read that shit," Jackson answered, and from the footfall that grew slowly louder, Jonathan vaguely registered that Jackson had entered the room. A second later, a glass of water swam into his field of vision, as well as a hand bearing two pills in its palm. Jackson's voice rang in his ears, saying, "Take these."

Without even asking what they were for or why he needed them, Jonathan took the pills and clapped them to his mouth, swallowing them dry. It didn't occur to him to check their markings for any sign of what they were. He was simply past the point of caring or being curious.

Jackson withdrew the unused water and sighed before heading into the kitchen to dump it in the sink. He'd found some mild sedatives that might keep Jonathan from having another destructive outburst and, hopefully, help him get some sleep.

As he poured the water down the drain, Jackson could hear Jonathan's voice ask softly, "Did you…?" before trailing off.

"Did I what?" he asked without looking up, stuffing the glass into a cupboard. From the den, there was a small creak.

"Did you do it?"

A thunk.

"Did you kill him?"

Jackson turned around, and he saw that Jonathan had stood up and was walking slowly and clumsily in his direction.

Before Jackson could respond, Jonathan was already speaking quickly, a manic tone in his voice. "You used to kill people for work, you'd know how, and Leon wouldn't have done this, he wouldn't have let himself crash his car, and you would've known how, you'd have known how to make it look like an accident…"

By this point, Jonathan was only a foot or so from Jackson, and without warning, he grabbed Jackson's arms with his hands.

"You didn't like Leon, you never liked him, and he wouldn't have let this happen, he wouldn't have…"

Jackson, startled by Jonathan's agitated behavior, answered calmly, "Do you realize how paranoid that sounds?"

Jonathan seemed not to hear him. Instead, his nails started to dig into Jackson's arms, harder and harder as he asked feverishly, "Did you have anything to do with it? Did you?"

Trying to pull his arms away, Jackson hissed, "_No_, now let go of me…"

Jonathan was persistent, asking him in a slightly louder voice, "Did you kill him? Did you kill him, Jackson?"

"Scarecrow, you're hurting my arms…"

As Jackson looked at the unstable man in front of him, all he could look at was the eyes, the icy blue eyes that were just like Leon's that were just like his that were just like their mother's. And even as he stood there with his brother bent on causing him bodily harm, he could feel no regret for Leon's death, just as he felt no regret for what had happened to their mother. Growing slightly desperate, Jackson added, "I've already said that I didn't, now stop it…"

Eyes wide enough that Jackson could see their tiny red veins crisscrossing madly, Jonathan asked one final time, "_Did you kill Leon?_"

"_No!"_ Jackson shoved his hands hard against his brother's chest, surprising Jonathan and causing him to topple backwards. As he fell to the floor, there was a loud _crack!_ as Jonathan's head hit against the kitchen table. A second later, Jonathan flopped limply to the ground, silent and unresponding.

"Scarecrow?-!" Jackson asked the second the crack hit his ears. Jonathan didn't answer immediately, and Jackson inwardly panicked.

_Shit!_

Hoping that he hadn't just given his brother a concussion, Jackson crouched next to Jonathan, who was slouched against the kitchen table stiffly. Scanning his brother's face for signs of consciousness, Jackson asked, "Scarecrow?-!", the urgency apparent in his voice. When Jonathan gave no answer, Jackson's mind raced, and he wondered if he'd need to take Jonathan to the hospital and how long it would take to get there. He was about to go hunt for Jonathan's car keys when he heard a faint noise, and he realized that Jonathan was speaking.

"Why'd he do it?"

Instantly relieved and irritated, Jackson sighed. "Scarecrow, you just gave me a heart attack."

Not responding to Jackson's statement, Jonathan murmured, "Why'd he let himself die?"

Deciding to simply placate his brother, Jackson answered, "I don't know. Maybe he didn't have a choice."

Jonathan didn't say anything, seeming to lose himself to another daze. Jackson considered whether or not to leave him there, and the aching nail marks in his arms eventually told him to leave his brother be. So Jackson went to the den and sat on the sofa. He picked up one of his books and began to read, glancing up every few seconds to check that Jonathan was alright.

After about a half-hour or so, Jackson looked up to see that Jonathan had fallen asleep. Somewhat relieved that the sedative had taken its desired effect, Jackson walked over to his brother. Grabbing him by the wrists, Jackson dragged him across the kitchen floor and into the living room. Once there, Jackson heaved him onto the sofa brusquely, where he would let him stay and get some sleep. Having done that, Jackson retreated to the kitchen to pour himself a drink, having garnered a massive headache from the events of the evening.

Jonathan, who was only half-asleep behind his closed eyelashes, could barely make out Jackson's receding form through the blur of his eyelashes. In his strange, deluded mindset, he didn't remember who it was or realize that he was walking away from him to the kitchen. Instead, the blurry form changed shape in his mind's eye. The head grew long, black hair, and a grin shone out in the dim light. Cool blue eyes stared at him with glee, and a doctor's tags hung around a pale neck while long fingers shook the ashes from a Capri cigarette.

**Leon smiled at him casually, as though this were just another day at Arkham. Icy eyes shone at him happily, and a pleasant voice greeted him with warmth and humor. "Hey there, Jonathan."**


	19. Insanity Can Be Comforting

I've got two announcements before we get to the actual fic: first is for anyone reading who has written Red Eye fanfiction. Over in the Flight 1019 forums, we're going to be interviewing various authors about their fics. If you sign up, people are allowed to post questions for you for a week-long period, and you can answer them. It'll be a lot of fun, and a good way to get publicity. If you'd like to sign up, go to the Flight 1019 forum and post that you'd like to be put on the list.

I'm also signed up, so when my turn comes around, you guys can ask me any questions you like. I promise I'll answer any and all questions. However, I'm not going to give away future plot events or spoilers. Sorry!

The second announcement is this: I'm putting A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood or temporary hiatus.

Here's the situation: currently, I'm in the middle of writing two stories, this one and Did You Think You Were the First to Fight Back. As it is, I'm only three chapters away from completing Did You Think, and the chapters aren't even that long. With this story, I've got a bit more to go than that, and I really don't have a lot of time to work on both. College has left me with a lot less free time than high school did. I really don't have the ability to work on both at the same time. So I'm going to put this story on pause while I go finish Did You Think.

Please don't think that I'm giving up on this story, because I'm not. I've spent so much time and put a lot of effort into it, and I want desperately to complete it so that all those hours won't be in vain, and so you can all see the ending I've got in store. I just need this time off from it so that I can get my other story, and to get myself reenergized to write more.

The break is temporary. I promise I'm going to come back to this. We'll find out who raped Lisa, what happens in Iran, how Jackson escaped the police, the fates of all the OCs, all of it.

You've all been very patient with me, more patient than I deserve, and I'm insanely grateful. If you're upset, I can't blame you. I keep breaking my own promises about when I'm going to update and how long it'll take to finish this story. I thought this story would be done in June; obviously, that hasn't happened. Writing this has taken a lot longer than I originally anticipated.

In any case, I offer you about half of what was supposed to be the next chapter. It's not very long, but I hope you enjoy it. When I come back, I'll try to have a big, long chapter in store to make up for it.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Insanity Can Be Comforting_

The morning after the kitchen incident, Jackson awoke at about eight AM, while Jonathan remained blissfully asleep. Unsure as to what state his brother would be when he awoke, Jackson called Arkham and, doing his best Jonathan imitation, called him in sick. When he had done that, he made the fatal mistake of leaving the apartment to buy a newspaper and a coffee from the shop down the street.

When he returned, he found Jonathan setting the sink on fire.

Not bothering to ask what the _hell_ his brother was thinking, Jackson rushed to the sink and, brusquely pushing Jonathan to the side, turned the faucet on and extinguished the flames. With a small sizzle, the blaze was gone, and a few wisps of smoke were all that remained.

Once the fire was out, Jackson, still completely baffled as to what he's stumbled upon, retrieved the fuel source for the impromptu barbecue. At the bottom of the sink lay the previous week's paper, opened to the article on Leon's death. Jackson could feel his stomach sink a little, and he turned to his brother, who was standing still and staring at him blankly.

"What…" Jackson started, not completely sure what to say. "Why did you do that?"

With perfect sincerity and innocent curiosity, Jonathan asked, "Do what?"

"Why…" Jackson tried to phrase as calmly as possible, "…did you set the newspaper on fire?"

Leaning a little, Jonathan peered at the blackened edges of the newspaper pressed between Jackson's fingers. "Oh!" he exclaimed quietly, as though surprised by what he saw. Then, wide-eyed and casual, he replied to Jackson's query, "It lied."

Jackson frowned. "_What_ lied?"

"The paper," Jonathan stated, as thought it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It lied about Leon."

"What do you mean?"

"It said that he died." Jonathan blinked, his simple statement hanging in the air like a dead weight.

Jackson, bewildered, tried to wrap his mind around any scrap of logic he could deduce from that last sentence, but he came up blank. "_What?_"

"It lied. It said he died in a car crash."

"Ah." Jackson wasn't sure what to say next, not aware of how he should deal with someone who had clearly gone off the deep end.

Jonathan, furthering his explanation, continued tranquilly, "Obviously, that's not true, so I thought I should get rid of it."

"So…you decided to burn it."

"Yes." Jonathan blinked innocently at Jackson, who was vaguely hoping that this was some kind of joke. When no punchline came, he sighed in exasperation.

"Scarecrow, just…do me a favor, alright? Don't set anything else on fire, okay?"

Jonathan nodded agreeably.

"Good." Somewhat satisfied, Jackson walked a few feet to one of the cabinets, where he started pulling out bagels for a much-needed breakfast. As an afterthought, he called over his shoulder, "And don't break any more glasses, alright?"

"Whatever you say, Leon."

Jackson froze for a second. Then, without turning his head, he asked, "What did you just say?"

A few seconds of silence passed. Then, slowly and lucidly, Jonathan replied, "I said 'Whatever you say, Jackson'."

Jackson considered this for a second, then resumed his bagel retrieval without another word. Inwardly, however, he wondered just how badly Jonathan had snapped.

-----

The next few days went by with various periods of calm, followed by ensuing periods of strange behavior. It became something of an erratic, bizarre routine, one that Jackson desperately longed to escape.

Jackson tried to give his brother time to recover by making him stay home from work for the rest of the week. Jonathan didn't really seem to care one way or another, seeming lost and unreachable. He wasn't at all acting like his normal self, a fact that Jackson was all too aware of.

Jonathan seemed to sway from mood to mood without notice. There were times when he was calm and lucid, where he would seem to be his regular self. Yet this never lasted long, and was generally followed by turmoil. Jackson once made the mistake of mentioning Leon's name during one such period, and the result was swift and sudden. Jonathan began trembling violently, sinking to his knees and muttering, "He's dead, he's dead…" in a hoarse whisper. For the next hour, he was unreachable, murmuring those words like a hymn or a prayer.

The most common mood for Jonathan, however, was a calm, peaceful state in which he wandered the apartment as though stuck in a dream. He would speak to Jackson when spoken to, but Jackson suspected that it was really Leon that he meant to answer. And it was in this state that Jonathan would do strange, unpredictable things. He would say completely random things out of the blue, responding to some unheard query. He would walk around the apartment aimlessly for hours, never seeming to reach his desired destination. And it was in such states that he usually had his outbursts of anger.

They were as unprovoked as they were explosive. The first was when Jonathan suddenly decided to punch the bathroom mirror, causing it to shatter into tiny fragments of glass. By the time Jackson had rushed into the bathroom, Jonathan had landed another hit directly onto the damaged glass with his other hand, leaving all of his knuckles in a considerably bad state. Once he'd pulled his arm back, though, he subsided into heavy breathing and wide-eyed staring at the destroyed mirror. Jackson was left completely bewildered, not sure what had sparked this outburst or why it had subsided so quickly.

There were more outbursts. The day after the mirror incident, Jackson could remember hearing the sound of the shower running for about five seconds before hearing a THOONK noise and a crashing THUD. Upon rushing to the bathroom once more, Jackson found a fully clothed Jonathan standing there casually, the showerhead in his hand as water shot out of the wall at an alarming pace. Thankfully, turning off the water knobs ceased the rush of water, and the showerhead easily fit back onto the exposed pipe. Still, the bathroom was left looking like a swamp.

On the third day came Jonathan's simplest, yet most bizarre outburst. In the middle of the day, he placed his glasses on the floor and crushed both lenses beneath the heel of his shoe. He then put the glasses, fractured glass and all, back on his face. He wore them that way for the rest of the day.

Jackson was continually perplexed by this behavior. He would do his best to clean up the messes and monitor Jonathan as best he could, but there was no predicting what Jonathan would do next. And to top it all off, Jonathan would call him "Leon" after every incident, seeming to truly think that Jackson was the deceased man for whom he mourned.

Jackson didn't know, of course, that this had all happened before, that similar behavior had been done on his behalf, that Jonathan had experienced similar bouts of madness when he'd disappeared to make a career out of murder. If Jonathan had been in a better state, he might have bitterly recalled how fervently he denied his brother's departure, how he deluded himself into thinking his brother would always be there for him.

As it was, however, Jonathan had lost his mind.

All of the occurrences that troubled Jackson so badly were mere whimsies to Jonathan. In the aftermath of learning Leon's fate, Jonathan wandered through each day without caring or noticing what was going on around him. He could never remember what he was doing a minute ago, and he would sometimes stop and look around curiously, wondering what he was doing and where he was.

That period of time was one long, emotional rollercoaster for Jonathan. When he was feeling calm and lucid, he wouldn't even remember that Leon was dead, or that he'd spent a good deal or time mourning or in a deluded state. But he would inevitably remember, and then he was off.

If he was to acknowledge what had happened, he would start to shake as painful memories arose in his mind and as images of a wrecked car danced in his field of vision. If he were to enter a state of denial…well.

He had learned how to delude himself totally and completely when Jackson left him. Since he had honed that talent so effectively, it was inevitable that he'd use it when someone else dear to him was lost. And he did it so _well_. He would pretend Leon was in the apartment with him, turning his ghost into a third tenant. Without opening his mouth or moving his lips, he would "talk" to his dead lover throughout the day.

"**Stop worrying. I'm right here," Leon would say with his usual grin, his face kind and kidding at the same time.**

"I wasn't worried," Jonathan weakly insisted, knowing full well that his thoughts were transparent.

"**Liar!" Leon laughed, his voice jaunty. Looking over at Jonathan, his face softened a little. In a measure of affection, he laid his head on Jonathan's shoulder and stared up at him with doe eyes. "You know I wouldn't leave you, right?"**

"Of course."

"Good." A small smile crept onto his lips. "Can't have you getting all worked up, can I?"

It wouldn't occur to Jonathan during these deluded fantasies that he was deep in denial. That Leon wasn't there; that, as far as he was concerned, there was no Leon anymore; that Leon simply didn't _exist_ anymore. What he had come to know as Leon was now an empty body, devoid of soul or emotion, now residing in one of the numerous six-foot holes in Gotham Cemetery.

When he did realize, that was when he broke things.

The mirror had been a surprise, even to him. He had been staring at his reflection, and he's come to focus on his eyes. Leon's had been the same icy shade as his, and for a fraction of a second, he thought his lover stood resurrected before him. When he realized that it was merely his reflection, a surge of emotion erupted within him.

By the time he noticed what his right hand had done, his left hand had gone in to finish the job.

The shower had been another knee-jerk reaction. He'd been in a daze when he turned the shower on, but the sound of the water pattering against the tile reminded him of the first night he and Leon had spent together. It reminded him of how the sound of Leon in the shower had alerted Jackson to what they'd done. The second he remembered this, Jonathan was overcome by the desire to stop the water, stop the noise, stop the memories. And how do you stop something? Get rid of the source.

The result had been a waterfall shooting out of his bathroom wall. If anything, it had amused him, as well as distracted him from his previous recollections. And the look on Jackson's face had been priceless.

The glasses were Jonathan's end solution to some quiet meditation on how to stop himself from being reminded of Leon's abrupt departure. The problem, he decided, was that no matter where he went or what he did, he would _see_ things that reminded him of the deceased doctor. So in order to stop himself from remembering, he had to stop himself from_ seeing_. And what allowed him to see? Well, his eyes, but he wasn't far gone enough to rake out his corneas. So he did the next best thing and shattered the lenses to his glasses. He spent the rest of the day seeing only strange blurs and bumping into walls.

Even as Jackson remained bewildered by his brother's antics, it all made perfect sense in Jonathan's mind. He was protecting himself with the same warped logic that had cushioned him from Jackson's departure. He lacked the ability to grieve, and insanity was his haven from pain.

It eluded both brothers, but there was a poetic, vicious irony to the whole situation. Jackson had tried to regain his brother's attention by murdering his lover, and the end result was the loss of Jonathan's sanity. Meanwhile, Jonathan had taken to deluding himself into thinking that Jackson was really Leon, when Jackson was the person that had destroyed Leon in the first place.

Fate's a bitch like that; she likes to bite you in the ass with her tricks.


	20. Shady Dealings

I'M BACK!

Now that Winter Break has finally arrived, I've decided to revive this baby and, hopefully, finish it by the end of January. Now that I've got a lot more free time on my hands, I think it'll be a lot easier to get back to typing.

Thank you all once again for your patience. I'm sorry that I had to put this story on hiatus, so I will do my best to write these remaining chapters well. I hope you enjoy.

I apologize that this chapter is kind of boring. There's a lot of dialogue and exposition, but I promise that there's a lot of action in the next one. I'm hoping to have that up before Christmas.

Here's hoping you enjoy this!

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A big thank-you to AHS for the Farsi translations!

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Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Shady Dealings_

_It was with an aching sense of tiredness that Jackson found himself wandering the streets of Kermanshah, the sun beating down on him with an intensity he wasn't used to. Sweat rolled down his skin in waves, and he knew that he would reek horrendously as a result. In an attempt to soothe himself, he thought of how cool the hotel would be when he returned, and how he could order an iced drink and relax. For now, however, he was forced to plod onward._

_Behind him were his three coworkers, all suffering through the heat with the same impatience as Jackson. None of their group was happy with the intense heat of this part of the world, and all four thought longingly about the relatively milder climate of Miami._

_If they had been more alert and less affected by jet lag, they might have been more inclined to absorb the foreign sights and sounds. As they trod through a marketplace in downtown Kermanshah, they were surrounded by people on all sides, people shopping, selling, shouting, hurrying, wandering. Their ears were filled with the sound of accented Farsi, with a thousand conversations going on all around them. On either side of them were vendors selling all kinds of wares, from foods and spices to clothes and perfumes to pottery and textiles. If they'd had any curiosity, they might have tried to absorb these sights and sounds, but the jet lag had dulled their senses to the point of apathy._

_As they trudged along, Jackson tried to focus on the assignment at hand. They were to meet their employers at a local building, where they would receive instructions. Once they were finished, they could go back to the hotel. That was all that they had been told, despite some attempts at questioning. However, it seemed that everyone involved was keeping their mouths shut about the whole business, which irritated Jackson to no end._

_Jackson's thoughts were interrupted by a petulant Laurence, who loudly complained, "How did we end up getting an assignment in the one country where all the women wear burkhas?"_

Jackson sighed and rolled his eyes. Typical of Laurence to think of getting laid above all else.

_Sal sighed in frustration, having had to deal with Laurence for too many hours to count. "Well, I'm sorry that Guiteau couldn't get us assigned to the Playboy Mansion, but you'll have to keep your dick in your pants for now."_

"And where's the fun in that?" Laurence shot back. 

_Shuffling away from Laurence and closer to Jachson, Ray murmured under his breath, "Isn't it good to know that our primary concern is the next time we can whip our penises out?"_

Jackson smirked. "Well, with this talk making me all hot and bothered, I'm tempted to whip mine out right now."

Laurence grit his teeth. "I can hear you."

Ray chuckled. "Well, if you're in on the fun, why don't I just get a ruler out so we can all compare?"

"Hell, let's just have an orgy in the streets right now," contributed Sal.

_Jackson looked up to see a steel building rising up into the sky, bearing an address that matched their destination's. "Sorry, looks like we're here. Better put your penises back, boys."_

Sal chuckled. "Damn, I guess we'll have to wait 'til we get back to the hotel."

Laurence frowned. "You all suck."

It was only a few minutes later that the quartet found themselves strolling into a walled conference room by a receptionist. Jackson made note of its stark, sterile feel, as well as the fact that there was only dim lighting to be had. At the head of a large mahogany conference table sat two men, both wearing crisp business suits. One was a heavyset man in his fifties, who had an air of authority in the way he received them. The other man was much younger, who glanced around the room with an air of unease.

_As the four of them entered, the two men stood up. The heavier man surveyed them quickly and smiled broadly. With a booming voice, he proclaimed, "Asr be kheyr! Khosh amadid."_

The younger man smiled warily, eyeing the four visitors with a sense of distrust. "He means to welcome you. This is Kamir Farnad, the man who has hired you. I am his translator, Samir." Gesturing towards the seats of the conference table, Samir asked politely, "Was your trip pleasant?"

Sal nodded as he pulled out his chair. "Yes, our flight went smoothly."

Samir nodded serenely. "And your connection from Tehran?"

"Went without a hitch."

Samir smiled a little, revealing yellowed teeth. "Very good to hear." He pulled out a chair for Farnad before seating himself. As he did so, Jackson eyed the two men; Farnad seemed at ease, cheerfully looking out at them. Samir, on the other hand, seemed on edge and jumpy; the contrast between the two attitudes was striking.

_Folding his hands on the table, Samir looked at the four Americans and adopted a stern expression. "Since Mr. Farnad is unable to speak for himself, I will be the one giving you instructions for this assignment. However, please understand that Mr. Farnad will be your superior throughout the entire assignment, and that he is the one who will be in charge of the entirety of the project."_

Sal, leaning on the edge of the table, asked casually, "Is Mr. Farnad also the one funding this project?"

Samir pursed his lips and frowned slightly. "Such information is confidential. I'm afraid I cannot share the financial details with you at this time."

Sal's shoulders hunched slightly, but his face remained passive. "I see."

_Adopting a more amiable tone, Samir continued. "Very good. Now, here are your instructions." Leaning his elbows on the conference table , Samir stated evenly, "Tomorrow, you will be picked up by a car driven by one of our local associates. He will take you to one of our warehouses on the city's outskirts. Understood?" The four men nodded wordlessly._

_Without altering his gaze, Samir reached under the table and retrieved a large roll of paper. He spread it out across the conference table's surface, and Jackson realized that it was a map of the surrounding area._

_Pointing to the black dot labeled 'Kermanshah', Samir added, "When you arrive, you will meet with the other personnel for this assignment, about twenty others."_

"Are they also local officials?" Sal asked.

_Samir pursed his lips once again. "No, I believe that the majority are foreigners like yourselves. Sadly, we have been suffering a severe shortage of manpower in recent months." With a small sigh, he turned back to the map. "At that point, you will be divided into pairs…"_

Sal interrupted him. "Pairs? We were told this assignment would be done in groups of four."

Samir sighed in irritation. "As I stated only a few seconds earlier, we have a dire lack of manpower on our hands. As such, we were forced to take what few men we had and divide them into smaller groups." Samir raised his eyebrow, as if to dare Sal to interrupt again. "May I continue now?"

Sal said nothing, choosing to simply frown at Samir in annoyance.

_Samir looked down at the map, pointing to Kermanshah once more. "Each pair will de provided with a translator, as well as artifical Iranian passports and Iraqi travel visas." Anticipating Sal's questions, Samir held up his hand. "I will explain in a minute."_

"Each pair will be given a loaded cargo truck containing various crates for delivery. The translator must be seated in the passenger seat, while one member of the pair drives. The other will stay in the cargo hold." Tracing his finger along the winding lines of the map, Samir continued, "The trucks will leave at hour-long intervals. When your time comes, you will take this route to the Iran-Iraq border. Once you're across the border, then take these roads to our warehouse in Khanaqin. Once you're there, you will leave the trucks with our employees there and will be taken by transport back to your hotel."

Rolling up the map once again, Samir explained, "The reason you are being brought on these trucks is in case customs officials cause trouble as you're crossing the border. If customs officials ask to inspect the truck, let the translator attempt to sort it out. If they are stubborn, than it is your job to dispose of these officials and to do so in a neat, efficient manner. Understood?"

Sal nodded. "So this is a smuggling job?"

Samir merely smiled secretively, his yellow teeth looking like fangs. "I suppose you might say that." The smile disappeared, and was replaced by a far more stern expression. "However, I must stress one thing to you gentlemen: no one is allowed to touch, let alone open the crates in the trucks. Doing so will result in the termination of the assignment for the involved parties, and will be considered a failed mission."

_The yello fangs returned as a far more sinister smile spread across his face. "I don't think I need to remind you how CoH rewards failure."_

_As memories of slain comrades sprouted in their minds, the four men shook their heads fervently._

_Samir seemed pleased. "Good."_

_Leaning back in his chair, Samir asked, "Are there any questions before we adjourn this meeting?"_

To Jackson's irritation, Laurence piped up immediately. "So we were flown halfway around the world to drive some trucks for a few hours?" Jackson winced, mentally smacking Laurence for being such an idiot.

_  
Samir sneered. "Mr. Farnad is paying you well for this assignment. If transporting cargo upsets you, you may leave now."_

Laurence said nothing, choosing simply to scowl. Sal, trying to divert attention away from Laurence's rudeness, calmly stood up and stated, "Thank you, Samir, for your helpfulness." After shaking the translator's hand, he turned to Farnad. "Motshakeram, Karim Farnad."

Farnad smiled. "Motshakeram. Moafagh bashed!"

-----

"_I think it's drugs," Jackson stated firmly._

Sal looked up from his suitcase, his clothes strewn about haphazardly. "What's that?"

Jackson, his hands sifting through his own clothing in a more organized fashion, explained himself more fully. "The cargo. The stuff they're hiding, that they won't let us touch. My guess is drugs."

_Sal sighed. "Drop it. I don't want to hear this."_

Jackson sat down at the foot of his bed, staring over at Sal's half of their hotel room. "Look, it's gotta be something big if they won't let us touch it or even let us know what it is. My guess is, they're smuggling drugs and won't tell us in case we try to steal some for ourselves."

Sal sighed again before sitting on his own bed. "I doubt it."

"Why not? People smuggle drugs all the time into the US. Why not here?"

Sal gave him a stern look. "This ain't the US. And if they wanted to make sure we didn't steal any, why not just measure the weights of the cartons when we arrived?" Turning back to his suitcase, Sal added, "Keep your nose out of this. The last thing we need is for you to get us into trouble because you were overly curious."

_Jackson remained silent, thinking hard as he lay down on his mattress. His thoughts were continually interrupted by noises from the next room over, and he realized that Ray and Laurence were squabbling like lovers past the wall. With a sigh of exasperation, Jackson kicked the wall and shouted, "Keep it down in there!"_

Laying his head back down, he thought it over for a few minutes more. Ideas swirled through his head like a stream, until he stumbled on another idea. "People."

Sal looked up at him, frowning. "What?"

"They could be smuggling people. Illegal immigrants, maybe."

"In crates?"

Jackson sighed. "Hostages, then?"

"Then why not tell us?" Sal sat up on his own bed, trying to look imposing. "Look, you're thinking about this way too much. Just drop it. If we needed to know, they'd have told us."

Jackson chuckled. "Listen to you, trying to sound all responsible. As if you weren't curious, too."

Sal gave him a morose look. "Stop it."

"Why? Why does this matter so much to you?"

"_It's not that simple." Sal sighed angrily before asking quietly, "You didn't think about why they might need four American guys for an assignment taking place halfway around the world?"_

Jackson paused to consider this. "Didn't Samir say that they didn't have enough manpower?"

Sal barked out a laugh. "Bullshit." Looking over at Jackson, he asked, "If they only had a few guys to drive all of these trucks, why not just have two or three guys make multiple trips?"

"Time constraints?"

Sal tapped his fingers in a rhythm on his headboard, his fingers drumming out the noise to keep pace with his thoughts. "Or maybe they're planning on something going wrong. After all, if you have lots of guys and one of them fouls up, the rest can still do their jobs." Sal rolled over to face Jackson again. "Samir said that most of the guys on this assignment aren't from here. If Farnad really is thinking that something might go wrong, wouldn't it make sense to sacrifice someone else's men than to sacrifice your own?"

Jackson let this settle in his mind like a weight, and he felt slightly uneasy about the implications of Sal's words. "What do you think will happen?"

Sal shook his head slightly. "I don't know." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he added. "If I could quit, I'd be off this case. But Guiteau's pissed at me, and he's looking for any chance he can take to get me out of the way. So I'm stuck here, with whatever it is that Samir and Farnad are planning."

Jackson turned to look at the ceiling, staring at its tiles until he went cross-eyed. To his right, he could hear Sal ask, "What about you?"

Jackson shut his eyes and grinned. "I'm intrigued, sad to say. I think I'll be sticking around Iran for now."

After a few seconds, Jackson heard Sal sigh. "Famous last words."


	21. Yes Versus No

Hey, welcome back!

Okay, so I know I was trying to get this chapter out by Christmas, because I knew the week between Christmas and New Year's is always crazy (it was). However, I also forgot how crazy pre-Christmas planning can get, what with the cleaning and cooking and all. So I apologize for the late update.

I really have to stop trying to use time limitations, because it really has yet to work out. Hell, at the end of the month, it will be a _year_ since I started writing this. And I thought I'd have this finished by _May_.

There are no flashbacks this chapter, because I'm still trying to sort out how the timelines are going to work out. I had a bunch of notes on how it was supposed to go, but apparently they are currently lost in the abyss under my bed. As such, next chapter will definitely have flashbacks, but I'm not sure if it will have present-day stuff. I'm not sure. It's all kind of crazy, especially since I am _really_ unorganized.

Anyway, here are ten brand-spanking new pages for all of ya, along with a scene that's probably a thousand different kinds of blasphemy! Enjoy!

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Disclaimer: And on the eighth day, the Lord did speak, and He did say: "Queen of the imps doth not own Batman Begins, for it belongs to Christopher Nolan. Nor doth she own Red Eye, for it be the property of Wes Craven." And all was good.

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A Twisted Kind of Brotherhood

_Yes versus No_

After a few days passed, Jonathan started to calm down. He no longer destroyed things, and he adopted a much more peaceful manner in the days that followed. His actions became much more logical and thought-out, and he seemed to return to his previous state of mind. If anything, he became as detached as he usually was. So, for all intents and purposes, he had returned to normal.

Well, except that he was still under the delusion that his brother was really Leon, to Jackson's dismay and irritation.

One morning, approximately a week after Jonathan had heard the news of Leon's death, the two brothers found themselves sitting in the den as the early morning sunlight filtered in through the windows. Jackson found himself slumped on the sofa in the clothes that he'd fallen asleep in, munching a bagel absentmindedly as attempted to fight off an impending hangover. Jonathan sat in the armchair, dressed neatly while he scanned the newspaper and sipped coffee.

Jackson, whose thoughts were still fogged by sleep and alcohol, simply stared out into space and watched particles of dust floating through the sunlight. The silence of the room had grown so stagnant that Jackson was almost startled when Jonathan began to speak.

"I'm going back to work."

Jackson glanced over to where his brother sat. Jonathan hadn't moved an inch; his face was still facing the newspaper in his hands, but his eyes were watching Jackson intently.

Jackson chewed his bagel slowly before swallowing. Tentatively, he asked, "What did you say?"

Filled with determination, Jonathan stated firmly, "I'm going to work."

"…Today?"

"Yes."

Jackson stayed silent for a few seconds, trying to create a response that wouldn't piss his brother off. Cautiously, and with as much restraint as he could manage, he said, "You're sick."

Jonathan scowled defiantly. "I'm better."

"Are you?"

Glaring at his brother, Jonathan stated vehemently, "I believe I'm a much better judge of my own health than you are."

Jackson decided to withhold his opinions on Jonathan's mental health for the moment, lest Jonathan's calm attitude suddenly end. Silently, Jackson tried to think of the best approach to take. On the one hand, Jonathan did seem to be better. But who knew if that would last long?

On the other hand, Jackson sure as hell didn't want to be on the receiving end of a meltdown.

Eventually, with a small sigh of frustration, Jackson replied, "If you think that's best."

"I do," was Jonathan's firm answer.

"Well, then that's that." Jackson bit his lip for a second before adding, "If you're sure."

"I'm not a _child_," Jonathan snapped, his face contorted in an ugly mask. But as suddenly as his anger had appeared, it dissipated as Jonathan's face relaxed. Looking at Jackson apologetically, Jonathan murmured, "I didn't mean to get upset."

_Oh God_. Jackson almost had to laugh at how quickly Jackson had become so meek, but his stomach churned. He knew that it was the apologetic tone of one who had lashed out at a lover, not at a brother. Still, the abrupt switch was a bit disconcerting, coming from someone like Jonathan.

Without moving or changing expression, Jackson merely mumbled, "It's fine."

To Jackson's dismay, Jonathan began to speak again. "It's just...this last week, I've been very…confused, I guess."

"How so?"

"Ever since I've started taking these days off from work, I've been having…visions that bad things have happened. That bad things have happened to _you_." Jonathan fidgeted, racked with a nervous energy he couldn't control. "Sometimes I'm _convinced_ that something happened, that you…" Jonathan stopped to bite his lip, and Jackson could see his brother tremble slightly. Watching his brother cautiously, Jackson braced himself for another outburst.

After several seconds, Jonathan stood up and said in a low, quiet voice, "I should leave for Arkham."

Jackson said nothing, half-expecting for something to trigger another meltdown. He chose not to move or reply in any way as he watched his brother with a quiet intensity.

Jonathan, after a second or two of silence, said in a quiet voice that Jackson was not used to, "Do me a favor."

"What's that?"

"Don't die."

And with that, Jonathan grabbed his briefcase before walking quietly out the door.

Jackson lay down on the couch, letting the bagel slip from his hand to the ground with out notice. "Shit," he mumbled. Then, somewhat louder, he added, "Shit shit _shit!_"

Rolling onto his side, Jackson shut his eyes and tried to fend off an impending headache. His brother was still deluding himself, and, even worse, was now convinced that he was sane. And he had managed to convince himself that Leon had never died, and was now residing in his apartment. Which left Jackson stuck to try and snap him out of it, with no clue as to how.

Closing his eyes and resting his head, Jackson tried not to think about it. Let Jonathan sort it out for himself, however long it took. It had only been a week; perhaps time would clear the whole thing.

Even to Jackson, that sounded naïve. Sinking into the couch cushions, Jackson let himself forget about his batshit insane brother, and it was only a few minutes before Jackson had drifted off to sleep.

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Jackson remembered dreaming of weightlessness. He remembered the sensation of floating through a black nothingness, like a ghost in a spirit world or a particle pf dust on the breeze. He remembered peacefulness, a sense of calm pervading the air.

Then out of the blackness emerged a figure. It was oozing crimson blood over its entire body, and a sticky mess of black hair sat atop its obscured face. One of its hands was held out in front of it, as though it were a blind man stumbling through a sightless world; the other hand clutched tightly to a black rosary dangling from its neck.

The figure slowly approached him, stumbling and starting as it moved. It seemed to be a mess of clumsy motion and awkwardness, making him hideous and intriguing to Jackson. It wasn't until it stood directly before Jackson that it raised its gaze to look at him. At the moment Jackson could see the pair of icy blue eyes boring into him, he knew.

Leon.

"Why…?" A hoarse whisper drifted between them. Jackson made no move to respond, his mouth dry and hi body frozen.

The unanswered question appeared again. "_Why?_"

Nothing. Jackson remained still as Leon shook, his body trembling and convulsing, making the blood on his skin ripple violently.

With a sudden burst of anger, Leon grabbed Jackson's shoulders and dragged himself forward, screaming, _"Why did you kill me?-!"_

Jackson remained silent, frozen and unresponsive.

As if Jackson's silence had increased his fury tenfold, Leon's trembling became all the more intense. In one swift motion, his hands reached for the rosary beads dangling from his neck. A second later, the rosary was wrapped around Jackson's throat, with Leon twisting the strands to press tightly on Jackson's windpipe.

As he gasped for air in vain, Jackson could hear Leon's voice pounding against his ears. "_You stole everything._"

Pressing his lips to Jackson's ear, Leon hissed, "You took _everything_. My life, my lover, my _name…_"

Leon pulled away, twisting the strands harder into his fingers. The pressure of the beads increased, making Jackson gasp loudly. Leon seemed not to see him, his eyes still cold with rage.

"Your comeuppance is coming, Jackson."

He smiled a little, cruelly and happily.

"You've been tempting the devil all your life, but the time's coming for you to pay penance on your sins."

Jackson's vision blurred, and it was only a second or so before the only thing he could see clearly was Leon's icy glare.

"Every corpse you've desecrated, every drop of blood you've spilt, every tear shed because of you…you'll have to suffer them a thousand times over. You'll be _destroyed_, Jackson. Hell's too good for people like you."

The pressure was released and Leon stood back, leaving Jackson to stand with the rosary around his neck.

Leon smiled evilly. "I was the least of your worries, you son of a bitch."

And with that, he shoved Jackson's shoulders hard, and Jackson felt himself begin to fall.

As he shot downward with an unnatural speed, Jackson's ears were filled with the sound of crunching metal and glass before he felt the searing heat of flames licking at his back.

Bolting upright, Jackson awoke in a cold sweat, his breath heavy as his heart beat rapidly inside of his chest. Looking around, all he could see were the normal trappings of Jonathan's apartment, and he felt relief when he saw the mundane surroundings before him. Lying back down, he tried to think back on the dream, and if it meant anything significant or was merely nothing. A minute later, he was fast asleep; when he woke up later, he wouldn't even remember the dream at all.

------

At about five-thirty in the evening, Jackson's sleep was disturbed by a subtle click before the sound of light footfall. The den lights suddenly illuminated the back of his eyelids, causing him to flinch.

Rolling over to face the couch and block the brightness of the light, Jackson. "Evening, Scarecrow."

A second later, he could hear Jonathan's calm reply. "Evening."

There was more footfall and the sound of a soft thud before Jackson heard the rustling of fabric. Jonathan must've been taking off his coat.

A minute or so later, Jackson could hear Jonathan's voice ask, "Why are you sleeping so late?"

Jackson groaned, wishing that Jonathan would leave him alone so that he could get back to sleeping. "I'm tired."

A rustling noise. "Any plans on getting up soon?"

"No. Why?"

"Well, I was thinking of going out to dinner."

Burrowing his face further into the couch, Jackson muttered, "Have fun."

In a light tone, Jonathan replied, "I meant maybe we could both go out."

Jackson stayed still for a second before letting out a heavy sigh. "Scarecrow, not now."

Jackson's ears were greeted by the unfamiliar sound of Jonathan laughing. "Come on, don't be lazy."

"Scarecrow, I'm tired. Drop it."

There were a few seconds of silence, and Jackson naively assumed that Jonathan had relinquished the battle. However, that assumption was shattered when Jackson felt fingers toying with strands of his hair.

Immediately, Jackson stiffened. Fuck. Was Jonathan actually _toying with his hair_?

Rolling over slightly, Jackson saw that his brother was sitting on the edge of the couch cushions, his arm reaching over to tease the strands of Jackson's hair.

In a tone that seemed almost playful, Jonathan murmured, "Get up. You've been inside all day."

Jackson didn't like this. He knew that his brother was still batshit crazy, and that he was probably still laboring under false delusions. If it was true that Jonathan thought he was speaking to Leon, then he was in a _very_ uncomfortable position.

Jonathan leaned over slightly so that Jackson could feel his warm breath beat down on his skin. Jonathan smiled a little. "Don't be so stubborn."

Weakly, Jackson protested. "Get off me."

Jonathan didn't seem to notice Jackson's objection. Leaning over even further, a mischievous smile crept across his lips. With his hot breath beating down ever more on Jackson's skin, Jonathan practically whispered, "Come on. If you come with me, you can pick the place…"

Jackson barely heard the words coming from his brother's lips; his mind was too busy racing through a thousand thoughts on what to do. Jonathan was too close, _way_ too close. Jonathan's nose was only a few inches from Jackson's cheek, and his hand was still resting in his hair. It was painfully awkward.

So why couldn't he just push Jonathan off of him?

A voice from the past arose in Jackson's mind from nowhere, whispering in his ear.

"_Why…?"_

That was Leon's voice. Leon's voice, Leon's question right before he died.

"_Because I hate you."_

No….no, that wasn't it.

"…we'll get some good food, maybe some good wine…"

"_You should never have gotten involved with him. You should have left him alone and gone and fucked some other pretty boy."_

_Closer._

"…maybe afterward we can take a walk, see the sights a little…"

"_It'd have been much better for you if you'd just stayed away. You should've realized that Jonathan belonged to someone else. That he was mine."_

_That was it._

"_He was mine."_

"…and come back here afterwards…"

"_Mine."_

"…and if you're lucky…"

"_Mine."_

"…we can take things further from there."

_You want this, you sick freak._

_That was the whole point, wasn't it?_

Almost as if to answer Jackson's inner monologue, Jonathan leaned even closer to Jackson, the smile still sitting on his face. Pressing his lips practically against Jackson's ear, Jonathan asked in a low voice, "So how about it?"

The blood rushed to Jackson's face in a mad rush. His heart started pounding against his ribcage like a drum, and his thoughts suddenly became a swirling mess of "_Oh God yes_" and "_Oh God no_".

"Scarecrow…"

"I'm not taking no for an answer." Jonathan's lips moved down slightly, to the spot between Jackson ear lobe and his jaw bone. Kissing it lightly, Jonathan whispered, "So what do you say?"

_Oh, shit_. Jackson's stomach knotted as he struggled between the urge to squirm away and a slight arousal.

"Scarecrow…"

Sensing his defiance, Jonathan pressed his lips down more firmly before trailing them down to the nape of Jackson's neck. His fingers began creeping across Jackson's body like spiders; his right hand came to rest on the small of Jackson's back, while the left entwined itself in Jackson's hair.

Jonathan's voice hummed in Jackson's ear, his lips brushing his skin like feathers.

"Don't refuse me…"

In that instant, Jackson found his thoughts evaporating, and he was lost completely to _sensations_. The prod of Jonathan's fingernails on his back, the pressure of teeth behind the lips on his neck, the tickling feeling of Jonathan's hair falling on his face…but above them all was the sense of _heat_. The warmth of Jonathan's breath, his skin, his body…he wanted to feel that heat further, to be consumed by it like paper in a flame.

"_You stole everything..."_

But then his thoughts switched on again, and Jackson was brought painfully back to reality. This was Jonathan, his brother, a _man_. This was a crazy man, sick and deluded and insane. Jonathan was broken, one who wandered through a fantasy like a blind man.

Jackson could taste bile in the back of his throat, and a sense of nausea arose violently. Fuck, what was he doing? What was _Jonathan_ doing?

Before he even had time to realize what was happening, Jackson felt the sting of pain on his palm as Jonathan fell straight onto the floor. Jackson sat upright quickly, his breath heavy and his head aching.

Jonathan sat up slowly, clutching the cheek that Jackson had hit. He looked wounded, his eyes wide with a helpless hurt. Shaking his head slightly, Jonathan tried to stammer out an explanation.

"I-I did-dn't mean…I-I wasn't trying to…"

Jackson refused to look at him, simply staring at his aching hand as emotions swirled through him in a dizzying frenzy. "Get the fuck away from me."

"I-I swear I didn't…"

"_Don't touch me!_"

Jonathan stood up quietly and retreated to the kitchen, leaving Jackson alone to stew. Sighing loudly, Jackson lay back down across the couch, shutting his eyes and pretending to sleep while his hand throbbed.

After ten minutes had passed, Jackson could hear the sound of footsteps, and it wasn't long before he could smell the stale scent of leftovers hanging in the air.


End file.
